“He is to die,” she murmured in shocked tones, “yet he jested. He jested, Peggy.”
“Sally, ’tis naught to make such a pother about. Men, especially soldiers, regard death differently from the way we look at it. Let me tell thee about the matter.”
“I don’t care to hear any explanation,” answered Sally shortly.
“Sally, Sally, is thee going to be unreasonable and obstinate now? ’Tis as Clifford said: ‘Thee should say naught against the English for perverseness. Thee isn’t much better.’”
“Did Clifford Owen say that?” demanded Sally, sitting up with flaming cheeks.
“Nay; but something like it. How can I tell thee what he said if thee will not listen? Or has thee made up thy mind not to listen to Clifford’s explanation in revenge for the time that he was in listening to thine?” concluded Peggy artfully.
“Peggy! thee knows better than that. Of course, if there is an explanation I will hear it. It did not occur to me that there could be one.”
“Now that is my own Sally,” cried Peggy kissing her. She sat down on the side of the bed, and began earnestly: “Sally, we must not forget that my cousin belongs to the world’s people. Many things which to us are of gravity are not so to them, and our belief is as naught if it doth not make us regard their feelings with charity. Clifford feels sorrow now for the joke, and grieves because thee is inclined to think hardly of him.” Forthwith she told Sally how the jest had come about, ending with:
“So thee sees, Sally, that thou art somewhat in fault thyself, insomuch as thee said that thee would not venture in unless he were bound.”
“I see,” remarked Sally thoughtfully. “I see, Peggy. Well, ’tis all right, of course; but oh, Peggy! If—if he had not made me feel so sorry for him. If I had not cried because I thought those ropes hurt him I would not mind so much; though it was in truth ill to jest when he is to die.”