"W'y, there'll be blood shed—blood!—quarts on it—buckets on it! Black Jarge'll batter this 'ere cove's 'ead soft, so sure as I were baptized Richard 'e'll lift this cove up in 'is great, strong arms, an' 'e'll throw this cove down, an' 'e'll gore 'im, an' stamp 'im down under 'is feet, an' this cove's blood'll go soakin' an' a-soakin' into the grass, some'eres beneath some 'edge, or in some quiet corner o' the woods—and the birds'll perch on this cove's breast, an' flutter their wings in this cove's face, 'cause they'll know as this cove can never do nobody no 'urt no more; ah! there'll be blood—gallons of it!" "I hope not!" said I. "Ye do, do ye?" "Most fervently!" "An' 'cause why?" "Because I happen to be that cove," I answered. "Oh!" said the Pedler, eyeing me more narrowly; "you are, are ye?" "I am!" "Yet you ain't got w'ite 'ands." "They were white once," said I. "An' I don't see as your ways is soft—nor yet takin'!" "None the less, I am that cove!" "Oh!" repeated the Pedler, and, having turned this intelligence over in his mind, spat thoughtfully into the shadow again. "You won't be wantin' ever a broom, I think you said?" "No," said I. "Very well then!" he nodded, and, lifting his brooms, made towards the cottage door! "Where are you going?" "To sleep in this 'ere empty 'ut." "But it isn't empty!" "So much the better," nodded the Pedler, "good night!" and, with the words, he laid his hand upon the door, but, as he did so, it opened, and Charmian appeared. The Pedler fell back three or four paces, staring with round eyes. "By Goles!" he exclaimed. "So you are married then?" Now, when he said this I felt suddenly hot all over, even to the very tips of my ears, and, for the life of me, I could not have looked at Charmian. "Why—why—" I began, but her smooth, soft voice came to my rescue. "No—he is not married," said she, "far from it." "Not?" said the Pedler, "so much the better; marriage ain't love, no, nor love ain't marriage—I'm a married cove myself, so I know what I'm a-sayin'; if folk do talk, an' shake their 'eads over ye—w'y, let 'em, only don't—don't go a-spilin' things by gettin' 'churched.' You're a woman, but you're a fine un—a dasher, by Goles, nice an' straight-backed, an' round, an' plump—if I was this 'ere cove, now, I know what—" "Here," said I hastily, "here—sell me a broom!" The Pedler drew a broom from his bundle and passed it to me.