Without a word Black George turned and led the way to a narrow lane a little distance beyond "The Bull," and from the lane into a meadow. Being come thither, I took off my coat and neckerchief, but this time I cast no look upon the world about me, though indeed it was fair enough. But Black George stood half turned from me, with his fists clenched and his broad shoulders heaving oddly. "Peter," said he, in his slow, heavy way, "never clench ye fists to me—don't—I can't abide it. But oh, man, Peter! 'ow may I clasp 'ands wi' a chap as I've tried to kill—I can't do it, Peter—but don't—don't clench ye fists again me no more. I were jealous of 'ee from the first—ye see, you beat me at th' 'ammer-throwin'—an' she took your part again me; an' then, you be so takin' in your ways, an' I be so big an' clumsy—so very slow an' 'eavy. Theer bean't no choice betwixt us for a maid like Prue—she allus was different from the likes o' me, an' any lass wi' half an eye could see as you be a gentleman, ah! an' a good un. An' so Peter, an' so—I be goin' away—a sojer—p'r'aps I shan't love the dear lass quite so much arter a bit—p'r'aps it won't be quite so sharp-like, arter a bit, but what's to be—is to be. I've larned wisdom, an' you an' she was made for each other an' meant for each other from the first; so—don't go to clench ye fists again me no more, Peter." "Never again, George!" said I. "Unless," he continued, as though struck by a bright idea, "unless you 'm minded to 'ave a whack at me; if so be—why, tak' it, Peter, an' welcome. Ye see, I tried so 'ard to kill 'ee—so cruel 'ard, Peter, an' I thought I 'ad. I thought 'twere for that as they took me, an' so I broke my way out o' the lock-up, to come an' say 'good-by' to Prue's winder, an' then I were goin' back to give myself up an' let 'em hang me if they wanted to." "Were you, George?" "Yes." Here George turned to look at me, and, looking, dropped his eyes and fumbled with his hands, while up under his tanned skin there crept a painful, burning crimson. "Peter!" said he. "Yes, George?" "I got summ'at more to tell 'ee—summ'at as I never meant to tell to a soul; when you was down—lyin' at my feet—" "Yes, George?" "I—I kicked 'ee—once!" "Did you, George?" "Ay—I—I were mad—mad wi' rage an' blood lust, an'—oh, man, Peter!—I kicked 'ee. Theer," said he, straightening his shoulders, "leastways I can look 'ee in the eye now that be off my mind. An' now, if so be you 'm wishful to tak' ye whack at me—why, let it be a good un, Peter." "No, I shall never raise my hand to you again, George." "'Tis likely you be thinkin' me a poor sort o' man, arter what—what I just told 'ee—a coward?" "I think you more of a man than ever," said I. "Why, then, Peter—if ye do think that, here's my hand—if ye'll tak' it, an' I—bid ye—good-by!" "I'll take your hand—and gladly, George, but not to wish you good-by—it shall be, rather, to bid you welcome home again."