“Care for him!—I hate him!” cried Mary, passionately: “but do you think I wanted my own brother to go and take counsel with his big vagabond companion—”
“Phew!” whistled Bart again, softly, as he perspired now profusely, and wiped his forehead with his fur cap.
“And then go and beat one of the King’s officers? But you’ll both suffer for it. The constables will be here for you, and you’ll both be punished.”
“Not likely—eh, Bart?” said Abel, with a laugh.
“No, lad,” growled that worthy. “Too dark.”
“Don’t you be too sure,” cried Mary. “You cowards! and if he dies,”—there was a hysterical spasm here—“if he dies, you’ll both go to the gibbet and swing in chains!”
Bart gave his whole body a writhe, as if he already felt the chains about him as he was being made into a scare-scamp.
“Didn’t hit hard enough, and never touched his head,” he growled.
“And as for you,” cried Mary, turning upon him sharply, “never you look me in the face again. You are worse than Abel; and I believe it was your mad, insolent jealousy set you persuading my foolish brother to help in this cowardly attack.”
Bart tried to screw up his lips and whistle; but his jaw seemed to drop, and he only stared and shuffled behind his companion in misfortune.