I heard no word, and no look that I saw passed between, but Margaret left us and ran to Bryde.
"Put your foot on that cur, my lady," says he, cold as an icicle, and his head bare. Her two white hands trembled at his sleeve and she turned her face from the groaning man in horror, and then she raised her great blue eyes in one long look, and then her little foot but touched the man's shoulder.
A grim smile came over the face of Bryde McBride, like sunlight in a dark pool. "A brave lass," said he, and I only heard her reply, and saw her colour rise at his praise.
"Take me home," she whispered, "Bryde—Bryde dear."
"Drink," cried the man on the ground, "drink. God, I wis near hand it that time."
On the road home we pretended to be very merry, for nothing would please Margaret but Bryde would ride to her father's house. On the hill road she set spurs to her horse with a challenge to Bryde, and they left us some way behind, Hugh and me.
"Man," said Hugh, and his face was troubled, "this will not do."
"No," said I, and hated myself, "for the boy's as good as you or me."
"Good!" cries Hugh; "he's like the mountains—he's granite, and what are we but dressed sandstone—and the lass kens it," says he. "God help us."