"Met me." Still the same tone.
"I am not able to talk to you in the modish manner, nor do I think you would wish me to try to ape my betters, so I say plainly that our meeting has not made me uneasy. Why then you?"
"Had you not met me, you would now be asleep at the Hanyards, a free and happy country gentleman. Instead you are here, a suspect, a refugee, an outlaw, one tainted with rebellion, the jail for certain if you are caught, and then--"
She broke off abruptly, and I think I heard a low sob.
"And then?"
"Perhaps the gibbet."
"It's true that the thieving craft is a curst craft for the gallows, but to-morrow's trouble is like yesterday's dinner, not worth thinking on. We are here, safe and comfortable. Let that suffice. And to-day, so far from doing harm at which you must needs be uneasy, you have wrought a miracle."
"Wrought a miracle? What do you mean?"
"You have found a cabbage, and made a man. Good night, Mistress Waynflete."
"Good night, Master Wheatman."