In the room was an utter silence. She had drawn back for a moment stupefied, checking in her pride even the breathing of her struggle. He stood bent at the head a little, contrite, his hat, that he had lifted, in his hand. And they gazed at each other--people who had found themselves in some action horribly rude and shameful. “I think you must have made a mistake, or have been drinking,” she said at last, her breast now heaving stormily and her eyes ablaze with anger. “I am not the dairy-maid.” “I could not help it,” he answered lamely. “You--you--you made me do it. I love you!” She drew back shocked. He stepped forward again, manly, self-possessed again, and looked her hungrily in the eyes. “Do you hear that?” he said. “Do you hear that? I love you! I love you! There you look at me, and I’m inside like a fire. What am I to do? I am Highland; I am Long Islay’s grandson. I am a soldier. I am Highland, and if I want you I must have you.” She drew softly towards the door as if to escape, but heard her father’s voice without, and it gave her assurance. A pallor had come upon her cheek, only her lips were bright as if his kiss had seared them. “You are Highland, you are Highland, are you?” she said, restraining her sobs. “Then where is the gentleman? Do you fancy I have been growing up in Maam all the years you were away among canteens for you to come home and insult me when you wished?” He did not quail before her indignation, but he drew back with respect in every movement. “Madame,” he said, with a touch of the ballroom, “you may miscall me as you will; I deserve it all. I have been brutal; I have frightened you--that would not harm a hair of your head for a million pounds; I have disgraced the hospitality of your father’s house. I may have ruined myself in your eyes, and to-morrow I’ll writhe for it, but now--but now--I have but one plea: I love you! I’ll say it, though you struck me dumb for ever.” She recovered a little, looked curiously at him, and “Is it not something of a liberty, even that?” she asked. “You bring the manners of the Inn to my father’s house.” The recollection of her helplessness in his grasp came to her again, and stained her face as it had been with wine. He turned his hat in his hand, eyeing her dubiously but more calmly than before. “There you have me,” he said, with a large and helpless gesture, “I am not worth two of your most trivial words. I am a common rude soldier that has not, as it were, seen you till a moment ago, and when I was at your--at your lips, I should have been at your shoes.” She laughed disdainfully a little.