"What is it, Desire? Art thou in sore pain?"
"It ill fits thee to pity me when it is thou that hast done me such despite," whimpered Desire sullenly.
"I! what dost thou mean?"
"Why, I have ever liked our Captain since first I saw him, and now his wife is dead and buried, why should he not marry me as well as another?"
"Why not, if it pleaseth him? I forbid not the banns," replied Priscilla, the dim wraith of her old smile passing across her face.
"Why not? Because thou hast bewitched him, thou naughty sprite, and thou knowest it."
"What dost thou mean, Desire? Speak out and done with it, for thou weariest me sore," exclaimed Priscilla impatiently, while the fever began to streak her pallid cheek and flame in her great eyes.
"Why, I saw you two kissing last night, and I suppose you're promised to each other," muttered the other sulkily, and Priscilla, rising on her elbow, fixed on her a glance beneath which the coward quailed, yet sullenly murmured,—
"Well, you did!"
"Desire Minter, thou art lying, and thou knowest it, or else thy wits are distraught, or mine."