“It’s not that—you know it’s not that, Hal,” she said piteously. “But why worry me? If you’re jealous of him, fight him.”
Hal looked at her in astonishment; he was no coward, but neither was he a hot-head, and he knew something of Dick’s reputation as a swordsman and a knife-fighter.
Anny shrugged her shoulders.
“Fight him,” she repeated mechanically.
A sneer played round the boy’s mouth when he next spoke, and his eyes had grown cold.
“Marry, Anny Farran, I did not think you capable of it,” he said. “You would have me die on the Spaniard’s knife and so rid of for ever.”
Anny began to cry hopelessly. She felt there was no use in saying anything to him while he was in this mood, but she was very fond of him and he hurt her much more than he knew.
Hal turned on his heel, and, as he strode off, began to realize how much he loved the wayward beauty. A great wave of self-pity swept over him. He was very young, barely nineteen, and once or twice he bit his lip convulsively, as he imagined the future loneliness, the constraint at the Ship, old Gilbot’s sallies, and then, as he stayed to look out over the glancing, shimmering water, he noticed that the little white-sailed ship was still hovering about the mouth of the Mersea River, and he laughed wildly.
“May you sink the Spanish weasel,” he exclaimed aloud, and then went on, and every step he took he became more miserable and angry with himself and the girl.
“Oh! I’ll go and see Joe,” he thought, as he turned into the lane. “It’s a fine thing to have a mate, so it is, when your lass leaves you for a yellow heathen.” And he turned down toward Pullen’s cottage.