"Are ye a man?" cried she between snapping white teeth. "If so, you'll be the first as runs away from me. And why? Is it that I'm not good enough—fine enough—handsome enough—"
"My good girl, pray be reasonable—" I pleaded, which seemed only to enrage her the more until, finding me mute and so helpless against the torrent of her wrath, she checked upon a word, her red lips curved to sudden smile, and her voice grew singularly and sweetly soft.
"Poor young man, sit down and let us talk," said she, as if we hadn't uttered a word hitherto. So willy-nilly down I sat facing her amid the fern and very ill at ease. "Poor young man," said she again, "don't go for to look so downcast over so small a matter. Here's you and here's me; what's done is done! Treat me fair and you'll find me faithful, quick with my needle, a good hand at cooking and not so unkind as they tell o' me. Your life shall be my life and mine yours. Where you go I'll follow and belike it is we shall get along without overmuch fighting and bloodshed."
"But," said I, my brain whirling, "I had no idea—I—I—never imagined anything of this sort—the whole situation is—impossible!"
"You bought me, remember!"
"Did I?"
"Of course you did!" said she, looking at me great-eyed and I saw her lips quivering. "You pays over to old Azor fourteen guineas, a florin, one groat and three pennies."
"The act was slightly involuntary, as I remember!" said I.
"Talk plain, young man, talk plain! You buys me, and what's more, old
Azor weds us and makes me your mort according to the law o' the Folk."
"But not according to the laws of the English Church," said I, "and I am not one of the Folk. So you are quite free: the words of old Azor cannot bind me—"