"I—I be all right!" he said, and his voice was low and monotonous—"I be quite all right, a strong man I be—'tis time I were going home——"
"Yes, it's time you went home," Allan said, he ran his hands over the man's clothing, not yet trusting him, misdoubting Lestwick's strange passionless calm. He was searching for the knife that twice he had believed the man would have drawn on him, but there was no knife there.
"What be 'ee looking for?" Lestwick asked.
"Your knife!"
"I bain't got a knife, cruel treacherous, dangerous things knives be—I'll be getting home——"
Allan helped him to his feet, the man stood dazed, swaying a little, then he seemed to take hold on himself.
"A very passionate man I be," he said, "terribul wrathful in moments of anger——" He looked at Allan with that strange sullen expression of his.
"I beg your pardon if I did say or du anything as I should not—'tis my anger as du master I—I wish 'ee good night!"
He turned and walked slowly and unsteadily down the road. Betty caught at Allan's arm, and they stood there, the girl clinging to the man, watching him go. Once Abram turned his head and looked back, he saw them there together, the girl and the man, holding to one another, the dusky red came into his cheek, he breathed hard, then went on his way, mumbling to himself.
"A knife—he did think I had a knife—what du, I need with a knife—bain't I got my hands——?" He held them out before him and looked at them, as the fingers writhed and clenched and unclenched. "Terribul powerful my hands be, but I did not get them on him—no, not then, not then——"