But the gentle protest alarmed me. And she was too near me; and the fresh scent of her hair and skin were troubling me.
And, more than that, there persisted a dull soreness in my breast,—something that had hurt me unperceived—an unease which was not pain, yet, at times, seemed to start a faint, sick throbbing like a wound.
Perhaps I assumed that it came from some old memory of her unkindness; I do not remember now, only that I seemed to have no mind to stir up dying embers. And so, looked at her without any belief in my gaze.
There was a silence, then a bright flush stained her face, and she laughed, but as though unnerved, and drew her hand from my arm.
"If you think all the peril between us twain is yours alone, Jack Drogue," she said, "you are a very dolt. And I think you are one!"
And turned her back and walked swiftly into the house.
I took my rifle from where it stood against a veranda post, settled my war-belt, with its sheathed knife and hatchet, readjusted powder-horn and bullet pouch, and, picking up my cap of silver mole-skin, went out into the orchard.
Behind me padded my Saguenay in his new paint, his hooped scalps swinging from his cincture, and the old trade-rifle covered carefully by his blanket, except the battered muzzle which stuck out.
I walked leisurely; my heart was unsteady, my mind confused, my features, unless perhaps expressionless, were very likely grim.
I went straight to the group around the twisted apple-tree, where Penelope sat knitting, and politely made myself a part of that same group, giving courteous notice by my attitude and presence, that I, also, had a right to be there as well as they.