“Sage? Oh, she went out by the back way ten minutes ago.”
Part 1, Chapter XXII.
Cynthia’s Knights.
That was all—those few insolent, grossly-insulting words—and then the big fellow stood staring after the frightened girls.
“Take my hand, Julia,” whispered the younger sister; and if, as we read in the old novelists, a glance would kill, the flash of indignant lightning that darted from her bright eyes would have laid Jock Morrison dead in the road.
But, powerful as are the effects of a lady’s eyes, they had none other here than to make the great picturesque fellow smile at her mockingly before turning his hawk-like gaze on the frightened girl who clung to her sister’s hand as they hurried away.
“Has he gone, Cynthy?” whispered Julia, at the end of a few moments.
“I don’t know. I can’t hear them, and I won’t look back, or they’ll think we are afraid—and we are not.”