“It’s nothing to be grateful for, it seems to me,” Clare answered. “I suppose there’s nothing to be done but to sit down and wait until somebody comes. It’s a lonely road, of course, and we may wait a long time.”
“I say,” exclaimed Johnstone, “you’ve torn your frock rather badly! Look at it!”
She drew her skirt round with her hand. There were long, clean rents in the skirt, on her right side.
“It was his knife,” she said, thoughtfully surveying the damage. “He kept trying to get at me with it. I’m sorry, for I haven’t another serge skirt with me.”
Then she felt herself blushing, and turned away.
“I’ll just pin it up,” she said, and she disappeared behind the cart rather precipitately.
“By Jove! You have pretty good nerves!” observed Johnstone, more to himself than to her. “Shut up!” he cried to the carter, who was swearing again. “Stop that noise, will you?”
He made a step angrily towards the man, for the sight of the slit frock had roused him again, when he thought what the knife might have done. The fellow was silent instantly, and lay quite still, for he knew that he should strangle himself if he moved.
“I’ll have you in prison before night,” continued Johnstone, speaking English to him. “Oh yes! the carabinieri will come, and you will go to galera—do you understand that?”
He had picked up the words somewhere. The man began to moan and pray.