“—And cursed two score of times as far as I remember; but what I am asking now is what was in it?”
Mrs. Petullo began to weep softly, partly from the pain of the man's unconsciously cruel grasp, partly frotn disillusion, partly from a fear that she had to do with a mind deranged.
“Oh, Sim, have you forgotten already? It did not use to be that with a letter of mine!”
He flung away her hands and swore again.
“Oh, Kate Cameron,” he cried, “damned black was the day I first clapt eyes on you! Tell me this, did your letter, that was through all my dreams when I was in the fever of my wound, and yet that I cannot recall a sentence of, say you knew I was Drimdarroch? It is in my mind that it did so.”
“Black the day you saw me, Sim!” said she. “I'm thinking it is just the other way about, my honest man. Drimdarroch! And spy, it seems, and something worse! And are you feared that I have clyped it all to Madame Milk-and-Water? No, Simon, I have not done that; I have gone about the thing another way.”
“Another way,” said he. “I think I mind you threatened it before myself, and Doom is to be rouped at last to pleasure a wanton woman.”
“A wanton woman! Oh, my excellent tutor! My best respects to my old dominie! I'll see day about with you for this!”
“Day about!” said he, “ftly good sweet-tempered Kate! You need not fash; your hand is played; your letter trumped the trick, and I am done. If that does not please your ladyship, you are ill to serve. And I would not just be saying that the game is finished altogether even yet, so long as I know where to lay my fingers on the Frenchman.”
She plucked her hands free, and ran from him without another word, glad for once of the sanctuary of a husband's door.