"So best."
"Wait a moment. In such weather I would not let a dog stir."
"You would if the dog chose to go."
"To a master who forsook it—for a kick and a curse?"
Her face burned; she hung her head instinctively. She sank down again on the seat which she had quitted. The old horror of shame which she had felt by the waterside under the orchards bent her strength under this man's unmerciful pressure. She knew that he had her secret, and the haughty passion and courage of her nature writhed under his taunt of it.
"To refuse to stay is uncouth," he said to her.
"I am uncouth, no doubt."
"And it is ungrateful."
"I would not be that."
"Ungrateful! I did what you asked of me. I unloosed your Othyr of Art to spend his strength as he will, in essaying to raise a storm-blast which shall have force enough to echo through the endless tunnels of the time to come."