A cry echoed among the evergreens as in an empty room.
“Go back, I hate the sight of you! Go back and let me alone! I wish I was a man, to kill you!”
Miles had sprung to the path among the firs. It widened before him into a little alley of green shadows, where the girl stood facing Tony, her hand raised to strike. As Miles broke through upon them, she wheeled with the same look, the same cry, as when he had rowed out to her in the fog. The sailor fell back. The malignant flush that darkened his face was new and ugly; and yet in his eyes a conflicting change, still more new and lighted with a saving honesty, continued to blaze. If his anger were black as smoke, through it flickered some higher emotion.
“Hiding in the bushes?” he sneered. “You seem fond of that.”
Miles found himself unexpectedly at high tension.
“It’s my own shore!” he cried, choking. “You be off!”
He had run in close. They seemed on the point of clinching, when the girl darted between them, and with a swiftness that had the effect of strength, caught Miles by the arm, and flung Tony staggering backwards.
“For shame!” she cried. “Like a pair of wild savages! I’m ashamed of you both!” From under the high arched brows, her eyes sent out a dangerous light. She turned but the one shaft at Tony. “You go!”
He stood his ground, and retorted bitterly: