“Dunnot stop,” she said. “If—if yo' want to speak to me, I'll go along wi' yo'.”
“You think I'm in danger?”
He could not see her face, but her voice told him that her usual steady composure was shaken—it was almost like the voice of another woman.
“Yo' nivver wur i' more danger i' yo're loife.”
“The old danger?”
“Th' old danger, as is worse to be feared now than ivver.”
“And you!” he broke out. “You interpose yourself between that danger and me!”
His fire seemed to communicate itself to her.
“Th' harm as is meant to be done, is coward's harm,” she said, “an' will be done i' coward's fashion—it is na a harm as will be done yo' wi' fair warnin', i' dayleet, an' face to face. If it wur, I should na fear—but th' way it is, I say it shanna be done—it shanna, if I dee fur it!” Then her manner altered again, and her voice returned to its first tremor. “It is na wi' me as it is wi' other women. Yo' munnot judge o' me as yo' judge o' other lasses. What mowtn't be reet fur other lasses to do, is reet enow fur me. It has na been left to me to be lass-loike, an' feart, an'—an' modest,” and she drew her breath hard, as if she was forced to check herself.
“It has been left to you,” he burst forth, “it has been left to you to stand higher in my eyes than any other woman God ever made.”