Then, running to the corner of the lane, she plucked off her straw hat, waved it about her head, and shouted again in an accent of triumph:
"Hurrah! hurrah! beaten, sir, beaten!"
Paul Ritson came running down the fell in strides of two yards apiece.
"Oh, you young rogue—you cheated!" he cried, coming to a stand and catching his breath.
"Cheated?" said Greta, in a tone of dire amazement.
"You bargained to touch the beacon on the top of Windybrowe, and you didn't go within a hundred yards of it."
"The beacon? On Windybrowe?" said the girl, and wondrous perplexity shone in her lovely eyes.
Paul wiped his brow, and shook his head and his finger with mock gravity at the beautiful cheat.
"Now, Greta, now—now—gently—"
Greta looked around with the bewildered gaze of a lost lambkin.