"And must I beg," she whispered.
"I think," said Bryde, "that the horses are rested."
The light left her eyes, as the sea darkens when a cloud comes over the sun. Red surged the blood over throat and face and brow. She sprang to her feet, twisting her whip in her brown hands. By the horses she turned—
"Am I lame, or blind, or ugly?" she cried. "Oh, man, I could kill you . . . but some day, Monsieur, some day I shall laugh when that proud Mistress Margaret flouts your love . . ." She laughed, mocking.
"'It will be no concern of mine whether Bryde McBride goes or stays,' says the Lady Margaret. 'I do not beg—and what is he to me.'"
"You are a droll lass," said Bryde, with a frown on his face—"a droll lass, and very beautiful—so Mistress Margaret . . ." but Helen broke into his talk.
"Am I beautiful to you, M'sieu? I am honoured," but her eyes were soft—"but what would the proud Margaret say to that?"
"We will forget her, Mistress Helen—what have I to be doing except to be a loyal kinsman to her?" and here the drollest laughing came over Helen.
"I am sure she will be loving that," said she, "a loyal kinsman."
And although her breath was still flurried with her swift rage, her eyes were laughing at the man.