e more than a' that's in the earth, or th' heavens
above, or th' waters below! Say ye love me, and ha' done with 't."

Then gives she up herself to him for one beat o' her own breaking heart,
the poor madcap, and she leans on him with all her pretty self, as
though begging him to take her against her own will, and then a cry
breaks from her, half human, and half like th' cry o' a hurt beast, and
she saith,

"Shame on ye, shame on ye, to forsake th' lass ye ha' sworn to wed! Get
thee back to her straightway, or ne'er look me i' th' face again!" And
she leaps back from him, and points with her arm--as stiff and steady as
th' tail o' a sportsman's dog--towards th' village, and she saith again,
"Get thee back to her; get thee back to Ruth Visor, and wed with her ere
this month be out o' the year!"

Then lifts he his sullen head, and looks at her from under his brows
like a smitten blood-hound. And he saith back o' his clamped teeth, like
as 'twere a dog gnarling in his throat, "curse ye for a false jade!"
saith he; "Curse ye for as black-hearted a jade as e'er set an honest
man on th' road to hell!" And he turned, and cleared th' style with one
hand on 't, and went his ways.

And th' lass stood and looked after him as still as though she were
turned into a pillar o' summat, after th' manner o' th' woman i' th'
holy book, and both her hands grasping her breast. But anon there comes
a trouble o'er her face, like as when a little wind doth run across a
gray pool at eventide, and her lips begin to tremble, like as though
some red flower a-growing on th' bank was shaken by 't, and her eyes all
full o' woe, like th' eyes o' some dumb thing as cannot word its sorrow;
and all at once she falls upon her knees, and thence upon her forehead
on the ground, and afterwards to her whole length, with her strong hands
grasping th' flowers and grass on either side o' her, and tearing them
up with th' crackling noise that a horse makes when 't grazes. But no
sound escapes her, whether a sigh or a groan. Well, well, comrade, I cry
thee patience if I do stumble here a bit: I cannot think on 't now
without a tightness i' my throat, any more than a man can think o' th'
day his first child was born to him without his heart leaping hot in 's
throat like the flame to th' bellows. Well, well! Fill up, I say; fill
up. Remember th' old days, when thou wast more ale-washed than th'
bottle itself. Where be I i' th' narrative? Yea, yea, 'tis there--'ti