“This is not unlike some parts of Scotland,” he said at last, in an ill-fated attempt to revive a conversation which he did not recognize as dead and beyond his power to resuscitate. The girl reined in her horse, and Bruce stopped through sympathy, old John halting, that the respectful distance he kept might not be decreased. Frances held her head high, and there was a sparkle of determination in her eye. It was best to begin right, and she would put this persistent man in his place, a task already too long delayed. And perhaps the putting of him in his place would lessen the clamour of her own conscience.
“Sir, who are you?” was her amazing inquiry.
“Me?” gasped Armstrong. “I’m a Scotsman.”
“Perhaps I should have said, what are you?”
“You mean——Oh, I’m a drover—a dealer in cattle.”
“Did my brother tell you who I am?”
“He told me his father was the late Earl of Strafford.”
“Yesterday I was grateful to you for the aid you afforded my brother, as I should have been grateful to my servant if he had occupied your place; but I should not have forgotten the distance between that servant and myself. Strafford’s daughter does not recognize a drover as her social equal. I ask you to take the position I set for you when I began this journey.”
Armstrong’s face became very red, and then all colour left it as this pronouncement went on. His back stiffened, and, although he spoke with measured calmness, there was a thrill of cold anger in his words.
“Do you mean, madam, that I am to ride with your servant?”