“Steady, Bess!” he growled—“steady!”
She made as though to close the window, her bare arm gleaming in the moonlight as she reached for the catch.
“You are not my man, Dan Grimshaw,” she said, curling her lips over the words.
“Maybe young David would have had a kiss thrown him,” he retorted, hotly.
“Maybe—he would.”
“I’ll break the young fool’s back if I catch him dangling at your heels.”
“Take care of your own business, Dan,” she said, clapping to the casement and creeping back to bed.
IV
Bess was coming over the snow next morning from the thatched shed where she had been milking Dame Ursula’s cows, when Dan Grimshaw slouched round the corner of the cottage with his gun over his shoulder. He had been away in the woods early and had brought back a hare, a brace of woodcock, and a widgeon that he had knocked over in the old fish-ponds of the Abbey of Holy Cross. A black spaniel followed at his heels. Bess, in her red petticoat, her cheeks aglow under her coal-black hair, came over the snow towards him with the fresh milk frothing in the pail.
“Morning to ye, Bess,” quoth the great, hairy-faced animal whose huge calves and bulging shoulders were those of a stunted giant. “I’ve brought ye back some game, lass, in return for breaking your sleep last night. I’m sorry if I angered ye.”