98CHAPTER XII
Pastime Passing Excellent
“Il y a des offenses qui indignent les femmes sans les déplaire.”
–Emile Augier.
Like another Black Douglas, Din Driscoll rose among the crags, the dark tufts curling stubbornly on his bared head. He looked a sinewy, toughened Ajax. But he only spoiled it. For, raising his arms, he stretched himself, stretched long and luxuriously. His very animal revelling in the huge elongation of cramped limbs was exasperating. Next he clapped the slouch on his head, and clambered down.
Jacqueline might have been surprised to see him. Her brows lifted. “Not killed?” she exclaimed. “But no, of course not. You gave yourself air, you ran away.”
Driscoll made no answer. He was thinking of what to do next. She knew that he had run because of her, and she was piqued because he would not admit it. “So,” she went on tauntingly, “monsieur counts his enemy by numbers then?”
“Didn’t count them at all,” he murmured absently.
“But,” and she tapped her foot, “a Frenchman, he would have done it–not that way.”
She was talking in English, and the quaintness of it began to create in him a desire for more. “Done what, miss?” he asked.