"No, I didn't suppose you would," she answered. "Hum!" said I, rubbing my chin. "And why did you run away from him?" "Because he was a villain." "That was very illogical!" said I. "But very sensible, sir." Here there fell a silence between us, and, as we walked, now and then her gown would brush my knee, or her shoulder touch mine, for the path was very narrow. "And—did you—" I began suddenly, and stopped. "Did I—what, sir?" "Did you love him?" said I, staring straight in front of me. "I—ran away from him." "And—do you—love him?" "I suppose," said Charmian, speaking very slowly, "I suppose you cannot understand a woman hating and loving a man, admiring and despising him, both at the same time?" "No, I can't." "Can you understand one glorying in the tempest that may destroy her, riding a fierce horse that may crush her, or being attracted by a will strong and masterful, before which all must yield or break?" "I think I can." "Then," said Charmian, "this man is strong and wild and very masterful, and so—I ran away with him." "And do you—love him?" We walked on some distance ere she answered: "I—don't know." "Not sure, then?" "No." After this we fell silent altogether, yet once, when I happened to glance at her, I saw that her eyes were very bright beneath the shadow of her drooping lashes, and that her lips were smiling; and I pondered very deeply as to why this should be. Re-entering the cottage, I closed the door, and waited the while she lighted my candle. And, having taken the candle from her hand, I bade her "Good night," but paused at the door of my chamber. "You feel—quite safe here?" "Quite safe!" "Despite the color of my hair and eyes—you have no fear of—Peter Smith?" "None!" "Because—he is neither fierce nor wild nor masterful!" "Because he is neither fierce nor wild," she echoed. "Nor masterful!" said I. "Nor masterful!" said Charmian, with averted head. So I opened the door, but, even then, must needs turn back again. "Do you think I am so very—different—from him?" "As different as day from night, as the lamb from the wolf," said she, without looking at me. "Good night, Peter!" "Good night!" said I, and so, going into my room, I closed the door behind me. "A lamb!" said I, tearing off my neckcloth, and sat, for some time listening to her footstep and the soft rustle of her petticoats going to and fro. "A lamb!" said I again, and slowly drew off my coat. As I did so, a little cambric handkerchief fell to the floor, and I kicked it, forthwith, into a corner. "A lamb!" said I, for the third time, but, at this moment, came a light tap upon the door. "Yes?" said I, without moving. "Oh, how is your injured thumb?" "Thank you, it is as well as can be expected." "Does it pain you very much?" "It is not unbearable!" said I. "Good night, Peter!" and I heard her move away. But presently she was back again. "Oh, Peter?" "Well?" "Are you frowning?" "I—I think I was—why?"