'No,' she said, as he offered her his arm, 'I must walk alone. The road is rough. I shall be better presently. The carriage jolts.'
'You cannot walk,' answered the Captain; 'I see that you have not the strength. I insist on your taking my arm, or stepping back into the carriage. I am very thankful that I came with you. You are not in a fit state to be alone.'
She turned and looked at him. 'Oh, Mr. Trecarrel, I should have been far better alone.'
'Why so, Mirelle?'
'I cannot say. I need not have talked.'
'Do not talk now; listen, whilst I speak to you.'
'Speak then of something else—not of Orange.'
'I do not wish to speak of Orange. I will speak only of yourself.'
She held up her hands again, in that same entreating manner. 'I am too weak,' she whispered.
Her ankle turned as she stepped on the loose stones. A mist drifted across her eyes, so that she could not see the road. The air was rich with the music of church bells, the merry Christmas peal of Launceston tower and the village churches round, calling and crying, Noel! Noel! Noel! Glad tidings of great joy! Roast beef and plum pudding and mince-pies! Good Christian men rejoice! Pudding sprigged with holly, and over the pudding brandy sauce, blazing blue! Noel! Roast beef garnished with horse-radish! Noel! Mince-pies piping hot. Turn again, Whittington, to your Christmas dinner. Noel! Noel! Noel!