'You are going to give me a quarter of an hour,' said Larry. 'I dare say you may be busy, but I can't spare you till we've had it out with each other. I've but one arm now that I can use, but I'll bar the way with that, if you attempt to escape me.'
Honor looked at him hesitatingly. She was hardly prepared for the inevitable trial, then. She would have liked to defer it. But, on second thoughts, she considered that it was best to have it over. Sooner or later, an explanation must be made, so perhaps it would be as well for her that day to pass through all the fires. There on Broadbury, when the gorse is swaled (burnt), the cattle are driven through the flames. They plunge and resist, but a ring of men and dogs encloses them, armed with sharp stakes, and goad them forward, and at last, with desperation, lowing, kicking, leaping, angry and terrified, they plunge through the flames. Honor thought of this familiar scene, and that she was herself being driven on. Sooner or later she must enter the fire, be scorched, and pass through; she would traverse it without further resistance at once.
'I am ready, Larry,' she said in a low voice.
'My dear, dear Honor, what ails you? You are looking ill, and deadly white! What is it, Honor?'
'We all have our troubles, Larry. You have a broken arm, and I have a breakage somewhere, but never mind where.'
'I do mind,' he said vehemently, 'What is amiss?'
'You told me, Larry, the night your arm was hurt, that—your pride had sustained a fall and was broken.'
'So it was.'
'So also is mine.'
'But what has hurt you? How is it? Explain to me all, Honor.'