I stood hand on hip not three paces from her, and I fixed my eyes insolently upon her lovely face.
“I do not doubt their willingness under your tuition, madam,” I answered coolly, “but only their ability to do so; for,” I continued slowly, as a coarse laugh broke from the men behind me, “if they are no better when it comes to blows than King James, whom they serve, of whose courage we have lately had an example beneath the walls of Derry, there would be more about them of flight than fight!”
For a moment she gazed at me with panting breath and quivering nostrils; then moved by my words beyond restraint:
“You liar!” she cried, and throwing into the words all her concentrated anger, before I could guess her purpose she raised the riding whip in her hand and struck me heavily across the face.
To this day I take it to my credit that no oath escaped my lips. A thin trickle of blood ran down my cheek. But ere she could repeat the blow I caught her wrist and so stood facing her while one might count a score.
What she read in my own eyes I know not, but in the depths of hers I read impotent passion, scorn, and hate, but not a trace of fear.
I loosened her wrist—even in my pain its soft touch thrilled me—and I stepped backwards, wiping the warm blood from my face.
“Madam,” I said very quietly, “one day I will repay you for that blow with tenfold interest!”
“Threats!” she answered scornfully, “and to a woman!”
I turned away.