“Hush, Vincie,” she murmured, putting her fingers over my mouth; but I shook her hand down. “He—must I tell you?” she continued with hesitation, not wanting to anger me further. But I insisted that she should speak out. “Well, he beat me once,—but not hard. What are you going to do?”
I sprang to my feet and took two steps toward the gangway; then Ruth was at my elbow. She gripped me by the arm.
“What are you going to do?”
“Never mind what I am going to do. Let me go.”
“I shall not let you go,” tightening her grip. “Stop.”
I looked at her in amazement. I remembered her as a timid child when I used to think out and plan everything she did. But the case was different now. I had a notion to shake her off and was almost on the point of saying as I used to, “Hush, you are a mere child.” But there was a look in her eyes which told me plainly that childhood was past and that, between us two, I was no longer the master.
“Let me go, Ruth,” I said. But I spoke without spirit, and when I added “Please” she only shook her head and began to draw me back to where we had been sitting.
“I am ashamed of you,” she said, but very gently. “Do you no longer read your Bible, Vincie?”
“Aye,” I answered, jumping at the chance her reference gave me. “And it says that whoso sheddeth man’s blood by man shall his blood be shed.”
“But he did not shed my blood.”