"She shall swing his hammer for a scepter!" cried they.
"Shall sit on's anvil for a throne!" cried they.
"Shall queen it in a leathern apron o' Sundays!" cried they.
Rosalind fled amid their howls of laughter. She hated them all, and far beyond them all she hated him who had lowered her head in their sight.
It was after this that the Proud Rosalind—
(But here, without even trouble to finish his sentence, Martin Pippin suddenly thrust with his foot at the seat of the swing, nearly dislodging Jane with the action; who screamed and clutched first at the ropes, and next at the branches as she went up, and last of all at Martin as she came down. She clutched him so piteously that in pure pity he clutched her, and lifting her bodily out of her peril set her on his knee.
Martin: (with great concern): Are you better, Mistress Jane?
Jane: Where are your manners, Master Pippin?
Martin: My mother mislaid them before I was born. But are you better now?
Jane: I am not sure. I was very much upset.