“I thought it myself,” she said almost defiantly, as she rose to go about her work.
Dick put out a hand to restrain her.
“Prithee sit down, fair one, I would speak with thee,” he said firmly, his eyes commanding her with their momentary fierceness, and continued as she reseated herself: “Hast ever been off this Island, mistress?”
“Nay, sir,” Anny shook her head. “Not even to the West,” she added.
Dick threw up his hands in mock surprise, and the girl could not help thinking how beautiful they looked, rising so waxen-like from out the delicate lace ruffles which surrounded his wrists.
“The pity of it, mistress, O, the pity of it, that you should be wasted here on this desolate mud flat,” Dick was saying, “which is only visited by a gentleman once in two or three months, and then only for a sennight. No, the jewel of your beauty is little suited to so drab a setting as the mud-beslimed shores of Mersea Marsh Island.”
Anny looked at him, uncertain whether he was laughing at her or not, but she could get no hint of his mood from his face, which was nearly expressionless save for the eyes which regarded her almost mournfully.
“What would I find fairer than the marshes in another country?” she said at last.
The Spaniard laughed.
“The marshes?” he said. “Oh! Mistress, what have you known of beauty that you look on gray and purple marshes and call them fair?”