When, therefore, having vaulted over, he would have helped her, she
looked over him, and past him, and through him, and mounted unaided,
confident of herself, proud and supremely disdainful both of the
stile and Barnabas; and then--because of her pride, or her disdain,
or her long cloak, or all three--she slipped, and to save herself
must needs catch at Barnabas, and yield herself to his arm; so, for
a moment, she lay in his embrace, felt his tight clasp about her,
felt his quick breath upon her cheek. Then he had set her down, and
was eyeing her anxiously.
"Your foot, is it hurt?" he inquired.
"Thank you, no," she answered, and turning with head carried high,
hurried on faster than ever.
"You should have taken my hand," said he; but he spoke to deaf ears.
"You will find the next stile easier, I think," he ventured; but
still she hurried on, unheeding.
"You walk very fast!" said he again, but still she deigned him no
reply; therefore he stooped till he might see beneath her hood.
"Dear lady," said he very gently, "if I offended you a while
ago--forgive me--Cleone."
"Indeed," said she, looking away from him; "it would seem I must be
always forgiving you, Mr.
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