"Th'art the same wench," Martin cried in anger, seizing at her hand. "Hard words for old acquaintance, and a warm glance for a strange face."
She snatched her hand away and cuffed him on the ear with a force that sent him staggering.
Though he liked it little, he swallowed his wrath.
"Come, chuck," he coaxed her, "let bygones lie. Tell me, will he turn his hand to help his brother?"
She laughed curtly. "The last time he spoke your name, he said he would put his hand in his pocket to pay the sexton that dug your grave and would find pleasure in so doing; but that he'd then let you lie with never a stone to mark the place, and if the world forgot you as soon as he, the better for him."
"But sure he could not mean it?"
"He did."
Martin swore vilely under his breath.
From the kitchen came the landlady's voice. "Nell Entick, Nell, I say! Gad-about! Good-for-nought!"
"Go to the stable," she whispered, "and tell them I sent you to wait there. She'll be in better humour in an hour's time. It may be I can even bring you in here."