“Why, Gwen, lass!” cried I, “you ain’t never afeard of Hugh Anwyl?”
She was afeard, though; and she’d good cause, too.
“How’s Rhoda?” asks I. I ought to hae mentioned my father, but my mind ran, like a ship in a whirlpool, to one centre.
“Oh,” says Gwen, turning away her head, “she’s still ill!”
“What d’ye mean?” I sings out, clutching her arm tight.
“Don’t!” says she. “You sailors are so rough, indeed.”
“You speak the truth, then!” cries I; for I guessed from her look and the queer colour in her darned figurehead, that something was tarnation wrong with my Rhoda.
She looks at me as steady as a gunner taking aim.
“Hugh,” she says, “you’ll have to hear what will hurt you sooner or later. Rhoda is married to David!”
I didn’t speak. Neither did a tear escape my eye. But I sat down on a stone by the roadside, and I felt as if I’d been struck by a flash of lightning.