“The snow thickens,” he said, coming in again.
“Then there is nothing we can do to get to Logie?”
“Not yet.”
Quarrel showed in her eyes again. “A beggar-maid’s honour is of no account. It would not be, to you.”
He looked at her with puzzled question. To him, this was an adventure thrust on him by the tricky weather, and he would be glad to see the end of it.
“Your honour?”
“You are so dull, you men of Logie. It’s not you I doubt. I trust you—dear God, as I’d trust an oak-tree, or a stone. But they will say——”
She faltered, ashamed of her thought, dismayed by their imprisonment, bitterly resentful.
“They say,” snapped Hardcastle, “is the biggest fool in the Dale. He’ll not hurt us much.”
“You will not understand. Why did you bring me here?”