"The thing to do," he said, curling his long moustache with powerful fingers—"is for the Wycherlys to stand by us now—and the others there—that little Lacy girl—and Sir Charles if he chooses. We'll have to take the whole lot of them aboard I suppose."
"Suppose I go with you alone," she said in a low voice.
He started in his saddle, turned on her a face that was reddening heavily. For an instant she scarcely recognised him, so thick his lips seemed, so congested the veins in forehead and neck. He seemed all mouth and eyes and sanguine colour—and big, even teeth, now, as the lips drew aside disclosing them.
"Would you do that, Strelsa?"
"Why not?"
"Would you do it—for me?"
Her rapid breathing impeded speech; she said something inarticulate; he leaned from his saddle and caught her in his left arm.
"By God," he stammered, "I knew it! You can have what you like from me—I don't care what it is!—take it—fill out your own checks—only let's get out of here before those damned women ruin us both!"
She had strained back and aside from him, and was trying to guide her mare away, but his powerful arm crushed her and his hot breath fell on her face and neck.
"You can have it your own way I tell you—I swear to God I'll marry you——"