"I may not even wink," said I, smiling forlornly. "Aye? So! That's it, is it! A wink from you at me, and pouf!--a courtmartial! Bang! A squad of execution! Is that it, Jack?" "I should deserve it." "Lord! If men really got their deserts, procreation would cease, and the world, depopulated, revert to the forest beasts. Well, then--so Sir John is got away?" "I did not say so." "You wear upon your honest countenance all the news you contain, dear Jack," said she gaily. "It was always so; any woman may read you like a printed page--if she trouble to do it.... And so! Sir John is safe at last! Well, thank God for that.... You may kiss my cheek if you ask me." She drew too near me, but I had no mind for more trouble than now possessed me, so let her pretty hand lie lightly on my arm, and endured the melting danger of her gaze. She said, while the smile died on her lips, "I jest with you, Jack. But you _are_ dear to me." "Dear as any trophy," said I. "No woman ever willingly lets any victim entirely escape." "You do not guess what you could do with me--if you would," she said. "No. But I guess what you could do to me, again, if you had an opportunity." "Jack!" she sighed, looking up at me. But the gentle protest alarmed me. And she was too near me; and the fresh scent of her hair and skin were troubling me. And, more than that, there persisted a dull soreness in my breast,--something that had hurt me unperceived--an unease which was not pain, yet, at times, seemed to start a faint, sick throbbing like a wound. Perhaps I assumed that it came from some old memory of her unkindness; I do not remember now, only that I seemed to have no mind to stir up dying embers. And so, looked at her without any belief in my gaze. There was a silence, then a bright flush stained her face, and she laughed, but as though unnerved, and drew her hand from my arm. "If you think all the peril between us twain is yours alone, Jack Drogue," she said, "you are a very dolt. And I think you _are_ one!" And turned her back and walked swiftly into the house. I took my rifle from where it stood against a veranda post, settled my war-belt, with its sheathed knife and hatchet, readjusted powder-horn and bullet pouch, and, picking up my cap of silver mole-skin, went out into the orchard. Behind me padded my Saguenay in his new paint, his hooped scalps swinging from his cincture, and the old trade-rifle covered carefully by his blanket, except the battered muzzle which stuck out. I walked leisurely; my heart was unsteady, my mind confused, my features, unless perhaps expressionless, were very likely grim. I went straight to the group around the twisted apple-tree, where Penelope sat knitting, and politely made myself a part of that same group, giving courteous notice by my attitude and presence, that I, also, had a right to be there as well as they.