"Then will you come back?" he asked, amused by her taking it as a matter of course, always, that she was to have her own way.
"Then I will come back."
He tied the horses to two pine-trees, some distance apart from each other. Then he tried the bridge. It seemed firm. Garda, refusing his offers of assistance, crossed lightly and fearlessly behind him. Some of the twigs still remained on the old trunk, and she lifted her skirt so that they should not catch upon it and cause her to stumble; when they had gone nearly three-quarters of the distance, Winthrop, turning his head to speak to her, saw that she wore low slippers, thin-soled papery little shoes fit only for a carpeted floor. "You must not go among the bushes in those shoes," he said. "The bushes over there are sure to be wet; all that ground is wet."
"Don't stop on the bridge," said Garda, laughing.
But he continued to bar the way. "I will bring you the flowers," he said.
"I don't want the flowers, I want to go myself to the top of that ridge, and look down on the other side."
"There's nothing to see on the other side."
"That makes no difference. Go on. Go on."
He turned round; cautiously, for the bridge was slippery and narrow. They were now face to face.
"I shall never yield," Garda declared, gayly. "But I shall make you yield. Easily."