Andrew sat passive under her sympathy until she asked, “Did Braelands say anything when he struck you? Had he no word of excuse?”
“He said: ‘It is your own fault, fisherman. The lash was meant for the horse, and not for you.’”
“Well?”
“And I was in a passion; and I shouted some words I should not have said—words I never said in my life before. I didn’t think the like of them were in my heart.”
“I don’t blame you, Andrew.”
“I blame myself though. Then I bid Sophy get out of the cart and come to me;—and—”
“Yes, dear?”
“And she never moved or spoke; she just covered her face with her hands, and gave a little scream;—for no doubt I had frighted her—and Braelands, he got into the de’il’s own rage then, and dared me to call the lady ‘Sophy’ again; ‘for,’ said he, ‘she will be my wife before many days’; and with that, he struck the horse savagely again and again, and the poor beast broke from my hand, and bounded for’ard; and I fell on my back, and the wheels of the cart grazed the soles of my shoon as they passed me.”
“And then?”
“I don’t know how long I lay there.”