And in that very moment a gigantic figure came bursting through the hedge, clearing the ditch in a single bound—­and Black George confronted me.

Haggard of face, with hair and beard matted and unkempt, his clothes all dusty and torn, he presented a very wild and terrible appearance; and beneath one arm he carried two bludgeons.  The Pedler had spoken truly, then, and, as I met the giant’s smouldering eye, I felt my mouth become suddenly parched and dry, and the palms of my hands grew moist and clammy.

For a moment neither of us spoke, only we looked at each other steadily in the eye; and I saw the hair of his beard bristle, and he raised one great hand to the collar of his shirt, and tore it open as if it were strangling him.

“George!” said I at last, and held out my hand

George never stirred.

“Won’t you shake hands, George?”

His lips opened, but no words came.

“Had I known where to look for you, I should have sought you out days ago,” I went on; “as it is I have been wishing to meet you, hoping to set matters right.”

Once again his lips opened, but still no word came.

“You see, Prudence is breaking her heart over you.”

A laugh burst from him, sudden, and harsh.

“You ’m a liar!” said he, and his voice quavered strangely.

“I speak gospel truth!” said I.

“I be nowt to Prue since the day you beat me at th’ ‘ammer-throwin’ —­an’ ye know it.”

“Prudence loves you, and always has,” said I.  “Go back to her, George, go back to her, and to your work be the man I know you are; go back to her—­she loves you.  If you still doubt my word—­here, read that!” and I held out his own letter, the letter on which Prudence had written those four words:  “George, I love you.”

He took it from me—­crumpled it slowly in his hand and tossed it into the ditch.

“You ‘m a liar!” said he again, “an’ a—­coward!”

“And you,” said I, “you are a fool, a blind, gross, selfish fool, who, in degrading yourself—­in skulking about the woods and lanes—­is bringing black shame and sorrow to as sweet a maid as ever—­”

“It don’t need you to tell me what she be an’ what she bean’t,” said Black George, in a low, repressed voice.  “I knowed ’er long afore you ever set eyes on ‘er—­grew up wi’ ‘er, I did, an’ I bean’t deaf nor blind.  Ye see, I loved ’er—­all my life—­that’s why one o’ us two’s a-goin’ to lie out ‘ere all night—­ah! an’ all to-morrow, likewise, if summun don’t chance to find us,” saying which, he forced a cudgel into my hand.

“What do you mean, George?”

“I means as if you don’t do for me, then I be a-goin’ to do for ’ee.”

“But why?” I cried; “in God’s name—­why?”

“I be slow, p’r’aps, an’ thick p’raps, but I bean’t a fule—­come, man—­if she be worth winnin’ she be worth fightin’ for.”

“But I tell you she loves Black George, and no other she never had any thought of me, or I of her—­this is madness—­and worse!” and I tossed the cudgel aside.