"—that it was because—you were—perhaps—rather glad to see me." Charmian did not speak; indeed she was so very silent that I would have given much to have seen her face just then, but the light was very dim, as I have said, moreover she had turned her shoulder towards me. "But I am grateful to you," I went on, "very grateful, and—it was very brave of you!"
"Thank you, sir," she answered in a very small voice, and I more than suspected that she was laughing at me.
"Not," I therefore continued, "that there was any real danger."
"What do you mean?" she asked quickly.
"I mean that, in all probability, the man you saw was Black George, a very good friend of mine, who, though he may imagine he has a grudge against me, is too much of a man to lie in wait to do me hurt."
"Then why should he hide in the hedge?"
"Because he committed the mistake of throwing the town Beadle over the churchyard wall, and is, consequently, in hiding, for the present."
"He has an ill-sounding name."
"And is the manliest, gentlest, truest, and worthiest fellow that ever wore the leather apron."
Seeing how perseveringly she kept the whole breadth of the path between us, I presently fell back and walked behind her; now her head was bent, and thus I could not but remark the little curls and tendrils of hair upon her neck, whose sole object seemed to be to make the white skin more white by contrast.