The
coach was now moving very slowly. It was surrounded by a drove of
bullocks from the Essex marshes going to Smithfield.
"You see?" laughed Dorrimore. "D'you suppose I would set you down to be
tossed and gored by vulgar cattle. Why the sight of your red ribands
would send them mad, as it's nearly sent me."
"I don't care. I'd rather be with them than with you. I hate you," she
screamed with tears in her voice.
"Really? I'll warrant your hate'll turn to love before we part," he
jeered. "I'm not going to see you come to harm, so I shall hold your
pretty wrists tightly. How round and slender they are! So, you're my
prisoner."
"I'm not and I won't be."
Somehow she dragged her right wrist away and dealt him a smart blow on
his cheek.
"You would fight, would you? What a little spitfire it is! No matter. I
love you all the better. For every smart you give me you shall be repaid
with a dozen kisses. If that isn't returning good for evil may I never
handle a dice box again. There, do as you like. Lay your white hand
again on my face. The bigger debt you run up the better."
Despite his banter he was very savage and he flung her hands from him.
She at once laid hold of the strap to open the window. He burst into a
loud laugh.
"So the bird would escape," said he mockingly. "I thought as much."
She tugged at the strap but tugged in vain. The window refused to budge.
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