“I wouldn’t myself be horsewhipping Chinamen much,” said Orlando. “They’re a queer lot.”
Suddenly she got to her feet. “I won’t stand it. I won’t stand it any longer,” she cried. “That is why to-day, although he told me I mustn’t ride, I took that new chestnut, and saddled it and rode—I didn’t care where I rode. I didn’t care how fast the horse went. I didn’t care what happened to me. And here I am, and—But oh, I do care what happens to me!” she added, her voice breaking. “I’m—I’m frightened of him—I’m frightened, in spite of myself.... He doesn’t treat me right,” she added. “And I’m terribly frightened.”
She raised her eyes to Orlando’s face in the growing dusk—there is no twilight in that prairie land—and there was that in it which made her feel that she must not give way any further. In Orlando’s veins was Southern sap, mixed with Northern blood; in Orlando’s eyes was a sudden look belonging to that which defies the law.
“Don’t—don’t look like that,” she exclaimed. “Oh, Orlando!”
Once more he heard her speak his name, and it was like salve to a wound. He put a hand upon himself. “I’ll go to Tralee,” he said, “if you don’t mind waiting here alone.”
“I can’t. I will not wait alone. If you go, then I’ll go too somehow.... It’s twelve miles. You couldn’t get there till midnight, and you couldn’t get back here with a wagon for another couple of hours from that. It would be daylight then. I can’t stay here alone. I’m frightened, and I’m cold.”
“Wait a minute,” said Orlando.
He ran back to the dead horse, unloosed the saddle from its back, detached from it a rain-coat strapped to the pommel, and brought it to her.
“This will keep you warm,” he said. “It isn’t cold to-night. You only feel cold because you’re upset and nervous.”
“I’m frightened,” she answered; “frightened of everything. Listen! Don’t you hear something stirring—there!” She peered fearfully into the dusk behind them.