It was her cousin.
For a moment her smile vanished; then she smiled again, but with a quickening heart. He did not release her wrist. It was of little use to speak to him, and they stood regarding one another at arm’s length. She felt her courage falter; he was trying to daunt her with his madness. The hair of his face glinted like bits of copper wire in the strong sun.
“Let me go, Eastwood,” she cried loudly.
Still his bulging eyes strove to quell her. “I’ve seen him kiss you!” he muttered hoarsely.
“Let me go, Eastwood!” she cried again.
“Ay, oft; and I’ve known when I haven’t seen it. I can see through walls, I can....” His muttering became unintelligible.
What was left of her courage seemed to rise in a flood, and she knew that when it ebbed again she would be helpless. She tried again to free her wrist, and then she quivered throughout her frame.
“This is three times,” she cried, regardless of whether he heard or not; “and now stand off! You say you can’t look on your own blood. Stand off, then, for I’ll cut a vein with the shears if you don’t!”
He drew his hand quickly away at her menacing gesture, and she sprang back, the teazels plucking at her skirt. She breathed tumultuously, but her lips were closed, and as she retreated through the spiny teazels he began to advance again. Two or three ash-trees were behind her, but she did not dare to run for their shelter. Suddenly with all her force she began to call, “Arthur! Arthur!” Ellah plunged forward through the blue mist of bloom.
She stepped aside, and he fell. He rose scratched, and regarded his hands wildly, and she fled through the dragging teazels towards the ash-trees. She called again and again, “Arthur! Arthur!” There came an answer from the top of the Scout, but she continued to call his name. There was a sound of plunging and sliding, and Monjoy pushed through the mountain-ashes.