“Not until you break my arm, Burgwan.”
I sat still looking with a child’s sullen anger into her clear, calm, resolute eyes.
“If you were a man....” I began and then laughed. “I’m a fool and that’s all there is to it. I’ll get off—but I won’t forgive you. This is mutiny.” I rolled from the saddle and was glad of the help of Karasch’s sturdy arm. “You don’t seem very weak, you coward,” I said, half in earnest, half in jest.
“That’s not the broken arm, Burgwan,” he replied, as he helped me with the gentleness of a girl.
“I’m all right and could ride fifty miles,” I protested angrily as I sat down; and then in proof of it, I fell back and fainted from sheer weakness.
When I came to myself Mademoiselle was bathing my face and head, deep pity and care in her eyes.
“I’m horribly ashamed of myself,” I murmured.
“It’s a good thing you didn’t break my arm, Burgwan, isn’t it?” she said, smiling.
“I was angry. I wanted to go on. I’m sorry.”
“It was mutiny, you know. You feel better now?”