This uncouth creature was getting horrible to me. I suppose he read my repulsion in my face, for his own suddenly grew agitated and menacing.
“Are you thinking of betraying me?” he said.
I retreated before him, working my foolish young arms.
“Keep away!” I cried; “I don’t even know who you are.”
“O!” he said, and stopped, and was at his spectacles again. Then suddenly he held up his hand.
“Hark!” he said.
I listened. Far and faint below, through the hubbub of destruction came wafted at intervals the name of the chaplain—Pope—the cynosure of all this iconoclastic zeal.
“Yes, it’s you they want,” I said.
“And you,” he retorted fiercely, “are pointing the way, you little”—
“It’s a lie!” I cried vehemently. “I came up here to escape from them, like you.”