The abstract truth of the description seemed to bring back the past, and Nânuk's face relaxed.
"Father's at Court, and mother's gone to see the woman who wants me to marry her son," explained Pertâbi between the munchings, "but I won't. I won't marry anybody but you, Nâno. I like you, Nâno."
Nâno's face relaxed still more.
"You have got sugar-presses, Nâno, and the other boy has none. He lives in the city, and I hate the city. Is there much sugar this year, Nâno?"
"More than last," replied the boy proudly. "We have the best fields in----"
"Then give me another bit," interrupted Pertâbi.
"That is all I brought." There was a trace of anxiety in Nânuk's voice, and he looked deprecatingly at the little figure now cuddled up beside him.
"Oh, you silly! but it doesn't matter. We can go and fetch some more. That's why I ran away. I knew uncle would bring you, so we can go to the village early. Come, Nâno."
"Go to the village, Pertâb! Oh, what a tale!" It is easy to be virtuously indignant at the first proposition of evil, but what is to be done when you are at the mercy of a small person who hesitates at nothing? Wheedlings, pinchings, kissings, tears, and promises were all one to Pertâbi. At least a ride on the pink-nosed mare for the sake of old times! They could slip away easily without being seen; yonder lay the road villagewards--there would be plenty of time to go a mile, perhaps twain, and get back before Chachcha-ji could possibly finish with his friends. She could get off at the corner, and then even if Chachcha-ji had discovered their absence Nâno could say he had taken the mare for water, or that the flies were troublesome. Excuses were so easy.
Ten minutes after, his feet barely reaching the big shovel stirrups, young Lochinvar ambled out of the court-house compound with his bride behind him.