“No,” says she, prompt enough.
“And why not?” says I.
“Because I shall not leave you,” says she.
“Why,” says I, “that’s very kind of you, cousin, but I wish I could see you in safety.”
“’Tis not my fashion to run away when things come to the worst,” says she.
“’Gad, mistress!” says I, somewhat nettled. “I don’t know which smarts the more—your tongue or this plaguey leg of mine. But you might be more civil,” I says.
“Was I uncivil?” says she, making a great show of innocence with her eyes.
“I know what you meant,” I says, turning surly again.
“Well,” she says, speaking very polite and gentle, “confess, cousin, that if you hadn’t persuaded me to leave the house, we should not have been burrowing in this ditch, half-starved to death.”
“No,” says I, “that’s true enough. But I would rather burrow in a ditch and have my life, than swing to the branch of a tree, or stand before a file of troopers with my kerchief tied about my eyes. And I think,” says I, regarding her narrowly, “that you would prefer your liberty even in a hole like this to being handed over to Anthony Dacre.”