“Stop, Mrs. Temple!” I cried, lifting up in bed. And to my astonishment she was silenced, looking at me in amazement. “You had your vengeance when I came to you, when you turned from me with a lift of your shoulders at the news of my father's death. And now—”
“And now?” she repeated questioningly.
“Now I thought you were changed,” I said slowly, for the excitement was telling on me.
“You listened!” she said.
“I pitied you.”
“Oh, pity!” she cried. “My God, that you should pity me!” She straightened, and summoned all the spirit that was in her. “I would rather be called a name than have the pity of you and yours.”
“You cannot change it, Mrs. Temple,” I answered, and fell back on the nettle-bark sheets. “You cannot change it,” I heard myself repeating, as though it were another's voice. And I knew that Polly Ann was bending over me and calling me.
“Where did they go, Polly Ann?” I asked.
“Acrost the Mississippi, to the lands of the Spanish King,” said Polly Ann.