She was possessed by a wild desire to fly,—to get away from him. But she found herself unable to stir, and sat rigid, feeling as if turned to marble, while his arm was still lying loosely about her waist.
Then his hand stole up, and his fingers clasped her hand.
"Oh, my God,"—his voice was hoarse and choked—"I cannot endure it!"
At this, there came to the girl a flash of remembrance from that same morning. She seemed to feel the arm of the young soldier around her, and to see the scarlet-clad breast against which her head was pressed so tenderly. A feeling as of treacherous dealing with his faith and with her own rushed upon her, and she struggled to get away.
"Are you gone daft, Hugh Knollys," she cried angrily, "or whatever ails you?"
He arose shamefacedly, and stood mute. But as she moved off, he stretched out a hand to detain her.
"Wait,—wait but a moment, Dot," he begged. "Don't leave me in such fashion. Don't be angry with me."
"Are you mad?" she demanded again, and with no less impatience, although pausing beside him.
"Aye, I think I must be," he admitted, now speaking more naturally, and trying to smile down into the small face, still glowing with indignation, so far beneath his own.
"So it would seem," she said coldly, and in no wise softened. "I ne'er expected such a thing from you."