“One does not try to love, I believe. I like you, and as a friend I will not forget you or go agen you. You are mixed up with all my life here, and I am friendly with yer mother and Lizzie; but if I’d lived here to the end of my days, I’d never have loved you, Patsie.”
“You’ll go off and marry some one else—some one of the pattern of the little red-faced blackguard.”
“No, I think not; I’m not such a fool!”
“Faix, I don’t know about that,” he sneered. “A long while back there was Mr. Ulick—ye were near making a fool of yourself with him!”
“I was not!” she retorted with passion. “How dare you bring in his name—how dare you?” she repeated, and her face was white.
“Oh, I dare most things when me blood is up. And now, I’d like ye to promise me one thing.”
“What is it?” she asked impatiently.
“That ye will never marry any one at all,” he answered, raising his voice, and his eyes blazed into hers, “but be true to Ireland—and to me.”
“True to you—what balderdash! Sure, don’t ye know well I never cared a thraneen about ye?”
She glanced up at him suddenly, and noticed that his dark, expressive face was working with passion. What ailed him? He looked murderous. Was he going to kill her? It was a lonely enough spot. A man had been beaten to death in that very road.