"Well, I'm damned!" he broke out at length. "I'm not a disease that you should shake me off in that fashion."
"I'm sorry," she said with quick-coming breaths. "You meant to be kind, I know, but—don't touch me again, please."
"I only wanted to keep you from falling in the dust," he retorted huffily.
"I know. But—I would rather fall in the dust."
She spoke almost in a whisper, yet with such obvious sincerity that he set his teeth viciously and answered nothing.
She remained standing before him, helpless, tantalising, unapproachable, in her childlike dignity. Her head was dazed and throbbing. Her knees shook under her so persistently that she gave it up at last, and sank down in the road, covering her face with her hands.
"Oh, how am I going to get home?" she moaned, more to herself than to him.
He came and stood near her again. He was surprised to find how keenly her distress hurt him, and now that his anger was past, her flash of independence made her more alluring than ever.
"If you won't let me lay a finger on you," he said in an altered tone, "I don't see how I can be any use. But if you will condescend to use me as a prop, I'll put you up on the mare, and walk beside you; then you can hold on to me if you feel shaky. We are not far off now, and the boy can take my pony on. Will that suit you?"
She looked up gratefully through a mist of tears.