“Yes,” said Rube. “Give me those ribbons you’ve got on—fix me up, put your colors on me, don’t you see?”
Mell did see at last, and greatly relieved, proceeded to do his bidding. The sash from her own supple waist was deftly transferred to his, and a knot of ribbons at her throat, after many trials, was finally disposed of to their mutual liking.
“Now, don’t I look as well as any of ’em?” inquired the improvised knight, quite carried away with the fixing-up process.
“As well, and better,” she assured him.
“Well, then,” he held out his hand to her, “let us seal the compact. If I win, Melville——”
“Yes,” said Mell, hurriedly.
“But if I fail.”
“You cannot fail, not if you love me!” She spoke impatiently, and with flashing eyes. “A one-legged man could not, if he loved me! Love finds a way, and love which cannot find a way is not love.”
“Enough,” said Rube, below his breath. “You will know whether I love you or not.”
Their hands were still clasped together in bond, until, perceiving they had become a subject of curiosity to those about them, Rube at length allowed Mell to withdraw hers, whereupon he turned off with a light laugh; that proficuous little laugh, which amid life’s thick-coming anxieties, great and small, serves so many turns, and turns so many ways, and covers up within us so much that is no laughing matter.