"There is the runaway, and by God—not alone!"
Urith shuddered, her hand twitched at the bridle, and made the horse start. She knew the voice well. It was not a pleasant one, harsh, and with mockery and insult in its tones. As her hand contracted, so did her heart, and sent a rush of blood tingling to her temples.
"That is Fox Crymes!" she said to her companion, "the last, the very last man I would have had see me here."
"Why the last?" asked Anthony, stepping on the bank, and leading the horse up on the land. "Why the last that you would have see you, Urith?"
"Because it was on his account I ran away."
"What," laughed Anthony, "Then it is Fox whom you would have bitten, had he allowed you to fasten your teeth on him?"
Urith's colour deepened; if Anthony had had pity, he would not have said this. If he had looked in her face, he would have seen how dark it was with shame and vexation.
"You wring all out. You are cruel—yes, Fox Crymes," she muttered.
"And I am not surprised. I would like to thrash him," said Anthony. "For one thing, for coming up with us now."