"There! didn't I say you are a witch! I could laugh at myself for this—I, Le Mierre, of one of the oldest families of St. Pierre du Bois to be kissing a girl like you, a girl who carries fish to market, tramp, tramp, all the way in the rain or in the sun! And, moreover, I, Le Mierre, oh, so respectable and fine of a Sunday, pulling a long face in my pew, and yet, behold, here I am a smuggler, keeping guard over brandy and lace and silks! And why the devil did I kiss you, for it isn't that you are a pretty girl or enticing, eh?"
The girl trembled and turned away her head.
"Perhaps I am not pretty, but you've kissed me for all that, and better still, you've told me your secret. I think it's a mean thing to be a smuggler: but I'd die before I'd tell anyone you was a smuggler. That I promise you!"
"Good! And why are you ready to promise me so quick? I'm inclined to be afraid you'll let out, after all. I've been a fool to trust you."
He grasped her arm roughly and knitting his brows was buried in thought again. But she broke in on his silence, with blazing eyes of such beauty that he understood why he had kissed her.
"Not a bit of it, Monsieur Le Mierre! A man is not a fool to trust a girl who ... likes ... him!"
"But, that's all very well! How is it you like me? You've never spoken to me before."
"I've seen you to church; and one can like people without speaking to them."
He laughed. "Perhaps you can, but I can't! Well, the job's done now, so I suppose I'll have to trust you. Next time you see me to church, you won't believe it's me you've really seen here. But you must be off—or else the other chaps will catch you. Look here, I'm sorry I've made your head bleed! and you'll have to tell a pack of lies to explain why there's a cut under your hair. Are you afraid to tell lies, eh?"
"Not to keep you safe."