"I will not be catechised." There was the gleam of a tear of vexation in her eyes and a quiver in her voice, that sent the militant spirit in the breast of Ande headlong in defeat. She turned her face from him in an effort to hide her feelings. An agony of remorse swept o'er his soul.
"I have hurt you," he said, timidly.
No answer.
"What have I done. I am a brute and a coward. I am not worthy to be called your knight," exclaimed Ande, in remorseful self-reproach.
No answer.
"Look at me, please. Speak to me," pleadingly. "You will not. I am the worst coward living—to hurt the feelings of the best of women," in doleful misery.
"You are hateful and unjust." An answer at length from the hidden face that made his countenance blanch and pierced even within, but he answered humbly:
"I am. I have been hateful and unjust to you."
"No. Hateful and unjust to yourself." The face again came into view and, could he believe it,—yes,—the tear was gone and the fun-light was twinkling in merriment.
"How?" in bewildered discomfiture.