"A cut!" repeated Barnabas—bethinking him of the gentleman's signet ring.
"Yes, a cut, sir," she repeated, and stole a glance at him under her long lashes; "pray did your horse run away also?"
Barnabas was silent again, this time because he knew not how to answer—therefore he began rubbing at his injured cheek while she watched him—and after a while spoke.
"Sir," said she, "that is the wrong cheek."
"Then, indeed, this must be very trifling also," said Barnabas, smiling.
"Does it pain you, sir?"
"Thank you—no."
"Yet it bleeds! You say it was not your horse, sir?" she inquired, wonderfully innocent of eye.
"No, it was not my horse."
"Why, then—pray, how did it happen?"