"I am a vasty fool!"
"Are you, Martin—why?" But in place of answer I rose and, coming beside her, scowled to see the tender flesh of her arms all black and bruised:
"What is this?" I demanded.
"Nought to matter!"
"Who did it?"
"You, Martin. In your raving you were very strong, mistaking me for the poor Spanish lady."
"O forgive me!" I cried, and stooping to this pretty arm would have touched my lips thereto for mere pity but checked myself, fearing to grieve her; perceiving this she comes a little nearer:
"You may—an you so desire, Martin," says she, "though 'tis all floury!" So I kissed her arm, tenderly and very reverently, as it had been some holy thing (as indeed so I thought it).
"I'm glad 'twas I did this, comrade."
"Glad, Martin?"