"In a different tone. You will unsay it."
"And why? We Knaresborough men seldom unsay anything, until our windpipes are cut clean in two."
"There's for a good Irishman!" said Michael, putting his bulk between the combatants. "He'll talk, says he, when his windpipe is in two. They could not better that in Donegal."
So the quarrel was blown abroad by the laughter of their fellows; but Michael, as they jogged up the hill, grew dour and silent. Kit's sudden heat astonished him. He had not guessed that the lad's regard for Miss Bingham went deeper than the splash of a pebble in a summer's pool.
When they reached the hill-top, a fresh surprise awaited him. Miss Bingham was standing there, with pale, drawn face; and her eyes searched eagerly for one only of the company, and disdained the rest.
"Her eyes searched eagerly for one only of the company, and disdained the rest."
Michael could not believe it. Her easy handling of the world she knew by heart—the levity that cloaked all feeling—were gone. She put a hand on Kit's bridle-arm as he rode up, and forgot, it seemed, that many folk were looking on.
"You are wounded. No? Then how fares it out at Skipton?"
The old Squire had seen the drift of things with an eye as keen as Michael's; and in his present mood he was intolerant of women and all gentler matters. "It has sped bonnily," he snapped. "Skipton has gone down-stream with the flood, Miss Bingham, and there's no more to do, save tend women's vapours and feed Michael's jackass."