"You see, Prudence is breaking her heart over you."
A laugh burst from him, sudden, and harsh.
"You 'm a liar!" said he, and his voice quavered strangely.
"I speak gospel truth!" said I.
"I be nowt to Prue since the day you beat me at th' 'ammer-throwin'—an' ye know it."
"Prudence loves you, and always has," said I. "Go back to her, George, go back to her, and to your work—be the man I know you are; go back to her—she loves you. If you still doubt my word—here, read that!" and I held out his own letter, the letter on which Prudence had written those four words: "George, I love you."
He took it from me—crumpled it slowly in his hand and tossed it into the ditch.
"You 'm a liar!" said he again, "an' a—coward!"
"And you," said I, "you are a fool, a blind, gross, selfish fool, who, in degrading yourself—in skulking about the woods and lanes—is bringing black shame and sorrow to as sweet a maid as ever—"
"It don't need you to tell me what she be an' what she bean't," said Black George, in a low, repressed voice. "I knowed 'er long afore you ever set eyes on 'er—grew up wi' 'er, I did, an' I bean't deaf nor blind. Ye see, I loved 'er—all my life—that's why one o' us two's a-goin' to lie out 'ere all night—ah! an' all to-morrow, likewise, if summun don't chance to find us," saying which, he forced a cudgel into my hand.