"Who be I? I be his gal, that's who I be—have been for months."
"You damn lyin' cat! Your man! He'm mine—mine! Do 'e hear? An' us be gwaine to be axed out in church 'fore summer's awver."
"Gar! you li'l pin-tailed beast—dreamin'—that's what you be—sick for un—gwaine mad for un! We'm tokened these months, I tell 'e; an' he'll tell 'e same."
Awed by such an exhibition, and amazed at rousing greater passions in others than he himself was capable of feeling, Gregory sank closer and held his breath.
"'Tis for you to ax him, not me, you blowsy gert female," screamed Margery, now grown very white. "Long he's feared you was on a fule's errand. He knaws you, an' the worth of you. An' he an' faither's friends again, thanks to me. An' he'm not gwaine to marry a pauper woman when he can get one as'll be well-to-do. You—you—what's the use of you but to feed pigs an' wring the necks of fowls for your betters to eat? What sober man wants a slammockin' gert awver-grawn——?"
A scream of agony cut short the question, for Sally beside herself at this outburst, and but too conscious through her rage that she heard the truth, set her temper free, flew at her sister like a fiend, and scratched Margery's face down from temple to chin with all the strength of a strong hand and sharp nails. Blood gushed from this devil's trident stamped into a soft cheek, and the pain was exquisite; then the sufferer, half blinded, bent for a better weapon, picked up a heavy stone, and flung it at close quarters with her best strength. It struck Sally fairly over the right eye, and, reeling from this concussion, she staggered, held up for a moment, then gave at knee and waist and came down a senseless heap by the edge of the water.
Margery stared at this sudden work of her hands; she next made some effort to wipe the blood off her face, and then hastened away as fast as she could. Mr. Libby also prepared to fly. For the unconscious woman at his feet he had no thought. He believed that Sally must be dead, and the sole desire in his mind was to vanish unseen, so that if murder had been done none could implicate him. He determined not to marry Margery, even if she escaped from justice, for he feared a temper so ferocious upon provocation. Gregory, then, stole away quickly, and prepared to perambulate round the farm of Batworthy, above the scene of this tragic encounter, and so return home secretly.
But circumstances cut short his ambition and spoiled his plan. When Margery left her sister, she had not walked far before chance led her to Henry Collins. He was on the way to the Moor once again, that he might pursue search for Stapledon, when Margery's white face, with the hideous wales upon it, her shaking gait and wild eyes, arrested him. He stopped her and asked what had happened.
"I've fought my sister an' killed her," she said; "killed her dead wi' a gert stone. She'm down to the river onder Batworthy Farm; an' if 'twas to do awver again, I'd do it."
He shrank from her, and thought of Sally with a great heart-pang.