The haughty, commanding tone of the man, and the knowledge that he was one ready to execute his threats, seemed to make those who hesitated consider that the better part of valour was discretion, and they scattered in all directions. Drownlands, upright in his stirrups, looked about him, marking those who seemed reluctant to obey his orders. Then his eye rested on Zita. His face changed immediately. 'You here?' 'Mark ran me up in his sleigh.' 'Mark? Mark? What Mark? How dare you come here without leave from me?' 'I am not your servant. I am not your prisoner. I go where I choose. I do what I will,' answered Zita, nettled at his tone. 'Hallo!' scoffed Drownlands. 'What! has the mad folly of Ephraim Beamish infected your little brain?' 'My brain is sound enough. It is you, Master Drownlands, who forget what your place is, and what is mine. You are not my master. I am not your servant. I pay my way. I am a lodger at Prickwillow, nothing more. If I please to go out for a run on the ice with Mark, I am not idle. I have done my work in your house, and may enjoy myself as I like.' 'Do not bandy words with me.' 'It is of no use arguing with him,' whispered the young yeoman. 'He is in one of his passions, when he acts and talks unreasonably. Take no notice of him.' 'What are you whispering about? Making mock of me?' roared Drownlands. 'Come, Cheap Jack,' said Mark, 'jump on to the sleigh again; and you, Master Drownlands,' he looked at the horseman with a laugh, 'let us race—you on the bank, I on the canal—and Zita the prize.' CHAPTER XIV ON ONE FOOTING Zita was back at Prickwillow long before the master. She anticipated a scene with him and prepared for it. He was wont to domineer in his house and on the farm, and she had just seen how he domineered and enforced his will on an assemblage of men not under subjection to him. She was sensible that he had gradually assumed towards herself an air of authority, but he had not hitherto addressed her in a dictatorial tone so distinct as to provoke resistance. She had, however, perceived that the time was approaching when some understanding must be reached as to her position and their mutual relations. She was not a domestic in the house, to be ordered about or to have her liberty curtailed. She had accepted his hospitality, not entered into his service. Zita was alive to the fact that every one in the house and on the farm—Mrs. Tunkiss, the shaking maid-of-all-work, the herd, the labourers, the stable-boy—all stood in awe of him. The housekeeper was as a lamb under his reprimand; a word addressed to the girl with St. Vitus' dance drove her into convulsions; an order given to the men galvanised them into momentary agility and sent the boy skipping like a flea. Zita despised them for their subserviency. She was not afraid of Drownlands. She knew that concerning him which was sufficient to make him quake before her.