In horror—in shame—ay, in shame so deep I flushed and dared not look at him—I flung off his arms. And I sprang away—desperately fingering my collar: for it seemed I must choke, so was my throat filled with indignation. “You wicked man!” I cried. “You kissed my sister. You—you—kissed my sister!”
“You wicked, wicked man!”
“Don’t, Davy!”
“Go ’way!” I screamed.
Rather, he came towards me, opening his arms, beseeching me. But I was hot-headed and willful, being only a lad, without knowledge of sin gained by sinning, and, therefore, having no compassion; and, still, I fell away from him, but he followed, continuing to beseech me, until, at last, I struck him on the breast: whereupon, he winced, and turned away. Then, in a flash—in the still, illuminating instant that follows a blow struck in blind rage—I was appalled by what I had done; and I stood stiff, my hands yet clinched, a storm of sobs on the point of breaking: hating him and myself and all the world, because of the wrong he had done us, and the wrong I had done him, and the wrong that life had worked us all.
I took to my heels.
“Davy!” he called.
The more he cried after me, the more beseechingly his voice rang in my ears, the more my heart urged me to return—the harder I ran.