"Tender-handed touch a nettle,
And it stings you for your pains.
Grasp it like a man of mettle,
And it soft as silk remains."
Never, my dear Paul, should you have approached a saucy, perky dame like this, in the character and with the attitude of a milksop. "Buxom dames will have a buxom wooing." "He who goes trembling will come back shambling."
"My dear Jeannette," began Paul, most humbly, as he caught up to her, "I wonder how you dare venture in these woods alone."
"Humph! I dare do anything I like to. And pray what have you got to do with it, Master Lazaire? I didn't invite you, I know!"
"Well, I thought you ought to have some protection, and I would accompany you if you didn't mind."
"But I do mind; so get off with you to that Saxon hussy I caught you kissing. You may tell her to wash her face, and comb her hair; and if she could tighten the bands about her skirts to make herself a waist, it would greatly improve her appearance. But she is good enough for you, anyway. So be off with you!"
"I never speak to those Saxon wenches. I love you alone, Jeannette; you know that well enough. But you seem now as though you hated to see me."
"I know I caught you kissing a Saxon wench, and a precious dirty one too. I know that well enough, Paul Lazaire. And I'll not have you following me at all. So be off, you softhead, and don't be told again!"
This style of rebuff was more than poor Paul had calculated upon, dubious though he had been, and his temper was considerably ruffled in consequence. His eye assumed an unnatural fierceness as he took in the lonely surroundings of the forest, and desperate resolves were quickly forming in his breast. Jeannette all the while kept her eye steadily fixed on a certain trysting-place, a little ahead, and her nimble feet were on the lilt ready for flight if necessary.
Paul laid his hand on her shoulder somewhat roughly, and said,—