“You look mighty ordinary without your wig!” said she, viewing him with coldly disparaging glance. “Very ordinary ... and insignificant!”
Sir John sighed and shook his head.
“No man is a hero to his valet!” he answered, whereat she tossed wig and comb at his feet and turned her back on him.
Sir John put on his peruke, settled it with nicest care, stroked the long, glossy curls, and rose.
“Many thanks!” quoth he. “But for my chin I should feel well-nigh respectable. And now permit me to return this trifle, which ’tis likely you have been diligently a-seeking.”
Glancing round, she saw that he was tendering the silver-mounted pistol. “I found myself lying upon it as I slept,” he explained. “’Tis a pretty toy, yet deadly enough—at close quarters. ’Twas vastly wise in you to arm you before trusting yourself to—my honour. I commend your extreme discretion. It must be a comfort to you to know you can blow my head off whenever you think necessary, or feel so disposed! Come, take your pistol, child—take it!” But, seeing she merely frowned, he thrust the weapon into the pocket of her cloak whether she would or no.
“So there you stand, Rose,” he smiled, “thrice, nay, four times armed—by your prayers, your little cross, a pistol and ... your innocence! ’Faith, child, you should be safe enough o’ conscience! Come, then, let us go seek breakfast.”
And now as they trudged along he talked of birds and the wayside flowers, of which it seemed he knew much; but finding she only frowned or yawned as the whim took her, he quickened his pace.
“Why will ye hurry a body so—I be all breathless!” she protested at last.