So, sitting by the mouth of the Jew’s Kitchen, I told her as much as I could remember out of Homer’s Iliad, wondering the while what my tutor, Mr. Josias How, of Trinity College, would think to hear me so use his teaching. By-and-bye, as I warm’d to the tale, Joan forgot her new smartness; and at length, when Hector was running from Achilles round the walls, clapp’d her hands for excitement, crying, “Church an’ King, lad! Oh, brave work!” “Why, no,” answered I, “’twas not for that they were fighting;” and looking at her, broke off with, “Joan, art certainly a handsome girl: give me a kiss for the mirror.” Instead of flying out, as I look’d for, she fac’d round, and answered me gravely— “That I will not: not to any but my master.” “And who is that?” “No man yet; nor shall be till one has beat me sore: him will I love, an’ follow like a dog—if so be he whack me often enow’.” “A strange way to love,” laughed I. She look’d at me straight, albeit with an odd gloomy light in her eyes. “Think so, Jack? then I give thee leave to try.” I think there is always a brutality lurking in a man to leap out unawares. Yet why do I seek excuses, that have never yet found one? To be plain, I sprang fiercely up and after Joan, who had already started, and was racing along the slope. Twice around the tor she led me: and though I strain’d my best, not a yard could I gain upon her, for her bare feet carried her light and free. Indeed, I was losing ground, when coming to the Jew’s Kitchen a second time, she tried to slip inside and shut the stone in my face. Then should I have been prettily bemock’d, had I not, with a great effort, contrived to thrust my boot against the door just as it was closing. Wrenching it open, I laid hand on her shoulder; and in a moment she had gripp’d me, and was wrestling like a wild-cat. Now being Cumberland-bred I knew only the wrestling of my own county, and nothing of the Cornish style. For in the north they stand well apart, and try to wear down one another’s strength: whereas the Cornish is a brisker lighter play—and (as I must confess) prettier to watch. So when Joan rush’d in and closed with me, I was within an ace of being thrown, pat. But recovering, I got her at arm’s length, and held her so, while my heart ach’d to see my fingers gripping her shoulders and sinking into the flesh. I begg’d off; but she only fought and panted, and struggled to lock me by the ankles again. I could not have dream’d to find such fierce strength in a girl. Once or twice she nearly overmastered me: but at length my stubborn play wore her out. Her breath came short and fast, then fainter: and in the end, still holding her off, I turned her by the shoulders, and let her drop quietly on the turf. No thought had I any longer of kissing her; but stood back, heartily sick and ashamed of myself.