There sat Ayacanora, her finery half torn off, and scattered about the floor in spite, crying still as if her heart would break; while poor Lucy cried too, half from fright and hunger, and half for company.
Amyas tried to comfort the poor child, assured her that the men should never laugh at her again; “But then,” added he, “you must not be so—so—” What to say he hardly knew.
“So what?” asked she, crying more bitterly than ever.
“So like a wild girl, Ayacanora.”
Her hands dropped on her knees: a strong spasm ran through her throat and bosom, and she fell on her knees before him, and looked up imploringly in his face.
“Yes; wild girl—poor, bad wild girl. . . . But I will be English girl now!”
“Fine clothes will never make you English, my child,” said Amyas.
“No! not English clothes—English heart! Good heart, like yours! Yes, I will be good, and Sir John shall teach me!”
“There's my good maid,” said Amyas. “Sir John shall begin and teach you to-morrow.”
“No! Now! now! Ayacanora cannot wait. She will drown herself if she is bad another day! Come, now!”