Outside, she took the path which led down to the inland end of the village, instead of the one which led to the opposite tor by way of the quay, and Orace hurried after her and caught her arm.
“Wrong wy, miss,” he said.
She looked at him.
“This is the way I’m going.”
“Sorry, miss,” he persisted. “I carnt letcha do that.”
“Can’t you?” she said slowly. “I’m sorry, but I must. I’ll show you——”
With a lightning twist she shook off his hand and ran. She could hear him racing lamely after her, shouting and imploring her to stop and think what the Saint would say, but she ran on like the wind. She went down the slope at break-neck speed, surefooted as a cat, but Orace limped along behind doggedly, sliding and stumbling in the steep darkness. Then a stone rolled under her foot: she jumped to save herself, caught her other foot in a tuft of grass, floundered, and went down in a heap. He had grabbed her before she could rise.
“I’m sorry, miss, but it’s me dooty, an ’e’d sy the syme.”
She got to her feet, shaken and breathless, but relieved to find that she had not even slightly twisted her ankle.
Orace felt something hard dig into his ribs, and knew what it was.