“My poor child,” said he in changed tone, becoming aware how painfully she limped, “you are worn out!”
“And your voice sounded kind!” she answered, turning to look at him; and he saw the cold, austere beauty of her face transfigured by a sudden tenderness so new and unexpected that he was amazed.
“Why—why, Rose,” he stammered, “you can be more—much more than merely handsome.”
“See,” she whispered, “the moon’s a’most down—’twill be dark soon!”
“Nay, child, in a little ’twill be dawn; you have walked with me all night. And this is the most desolate part of the road as I remember—never an inn, or cottage or bed for you, my poor girl!”
“The ditch will serve,” she sighed, “for indeed I can go no farther.”
“Nay, I will lodge you better than that ... there’s a haystack i’ the field yonder, if you can walk so far?”
“I’ll try!” said she between her teeth; but, catching her foot in a wheel rut, she staggered and uttered a cry of pain. And then Sir John had caught her up in his arms and bore her, albeit very unsteadily, across the stretch of meadow. Reeling and stumbling, he reached the haystack at last, and, setting her down, leaned to gasp and catch his breath.
“A goddess is ... an awkward burden ... for a ... mere human man!” he panted.
“Especially if she be ‘buxom!’” she added, with a little unsteady laugh. “Oh, but you are kind! And stronger than you look! I shouldn’t ha’ let you ... but me so tired ... and the pain! I think I shall cry!”