By all the chill miles homewards, whatever and what varying emotions prevailed in the breasts of the little party found no expression in words. Indeed there could be no passion of feeling in that bitter night so hot as to resist the numbing influence of a frost that seemed to glaze the roof of one’s mouth, if opened to speak, with ice. Tuke felt little but the instinct to prick his snorting beast onwards with bloodless heels. Yet through all he was conscious of a spark that glowed and wavered in him like a pulse--a little fierce flame of triumph and of ecstasy--a suffusion of audacity, or repudiation of the formal conduct to which he had vainly struggled to subscribe. He had no deliberate plan of evil in his soul; neither had he the courage or the inclination to face the situation of his own contriving. He had snapped under a strain, so it seemed to him; and that was all. For the moment it was exquisite pleasure to feel all his moral fibres relaxed as he drove intoxicated before the force he had for a time withstood. “Your fingers are a love-knot about my heart, Betty,” he once said over his shoulder. “It should be a toasting fire for their comfort.” He gently unslackened the clasp of the brown hands and bent and put one to his lips. “They are cold as snow, sweetling,” said he. “The little bones of them are stiff as flower-stalks; and they are as pretty, Betty, and by and by the buds shall break on them, if you please. Would you like these poor cold little stalks to blossom into pearls and rubies?” She tried to pull her hand away; but he would not let her. “No,” she said in a weeping voice. “Oh! how can you put me to the shame?” “Is it shame? That must be a stale superstition. It were shame in my eyes to pluck my flower and leave it to wither.” “Shame to the flower, that must be a bold, flaunting weed to invite such notice.” “Betty, that is sorry logic. What weed ever won man’s heart?” “I had best slip off and go back to my dead.” “Down with you, girl! and we will lie and die in the snow together.” “Oh, me! What can I say? Will your honour not ride on and forget I am here?” “To be sure, Betty--as I forget myself. You had best not remind me of it by addressing me so.” “I am your honour’s servant.” “Lip-service, wench. No, it will not do. Before others as you like; but alone with me--there, don’t cry! the frost will catch your tears, and your lashes will be hung with diamonds no gift of mine. We must think this all out, Betty, by a glowing fire. It is too cold here. That little touch on my heart is the only feeling I am conscious of.” “And you gave me your coat! Oh! take it--take it.” “That I shall not.” “I am warm--indeed I am.” “Lie in your burrow, little rabbit, and hide your eyes from the dogs. We go up to Mr. Breeds’s tavern here, and I don’t know what may be abroad.”