"Not again, pretty one!" laughed Red Ratcliffe, as he caught her by the arms.
"Let me go. I—I will not have thee hurt me so."
"Thou'lt have what I think good for thee in future," he answered, tightening his grip until she screamed for pain. "Thou didst hear, doubtless, that the Lean Man gave thee to me just now? Well, 'tis best to show who is master at the start."
"Master!" she cried. "Thou dar'st to call thyself my master?"
The word was like a knife-thrust to the girl. This lewd, red-headed fool to claim the title which belonged to Shameless Wayne! And then she remembered that Wayne's safety and her own depended, not upon passion, but on coolness now. She turned as Red Ratcliffe loosed his hold, and eyed him very softly.
"Cousin," she said, "thou wast wont to prate of thy love for me."
"I'll prove it by and by."
"Nay, prove it now—by gentleness. I only ask a moment's freedom—just to the garden-gate and back again, to cool my feverishness. This house-air stifles me. Cousin, be kind this once, and I will—will love thee for it."
"Thou hast fooled me so oft, lass, that it seems the fondest lie is reckoned deep enough to take me now. How far is't, tell me, from the garden-gate to Marsh?"
"Wayne is not at Marsh," she broke in. "Why should I want to go there?"