An’ so Peter, an’ so—­I be goin’ away—­a sojer—­ p’r’aps I shan’t love the dear lass quite so much arter a bit —­p’r’aps it won’t be quite so sharp-like, arter a bit, but what’s to be—­is to be.  I’ve larned wisdom, an’ you an’ she was made for each other an’ meant for each other from the first; so—­don’t go to clench ye fists again me no more, Peter.”

“Never again, George!” said I.

“Unless,” he continued, as though struck by a bright idea, “unless you ’m minded to ‘ave a whack at me; if so be—­why, tak’ it, Peter, an’ welcome.  Ye see, I tried so ’ard to kill ’ee—­so cruel ‘ard, Peter, an’ I thought I ’ad.  I thought ’twere for that as they took me, an’ so I broke my way out o’ the lock-up, to come an’ say ‘good-by’ to Prue’s winder, an’ then I were goin’ back to give myself up an’ let ’em hang me if they wanted to.”

“Were you, George?”

“Yes.”  Here George turned to look at me, and, looking, dropped his eyes and fumbled with his hands, while up under his tanned skin there crept a painful, burning crimson.  “Peter!” said he.

“Yes, George?”

“I got summ’at more to tell ’ee—­summ’at as I never meant to tell to a soul; when you was down—­lyin’ at my feet—­”

“Yes, George?”

“I—­I kicked ’ee—­once!”

“Did you, George?”

“Ay—­I—­I were mad—­mad wi’ rage an’ blood lust, an’—­oh, man, Peter!—­I kicked ’ee.  Theer,” said he, straightening his shoulders, “leastways I can look ’ee in the eye now that be off my mind.  An’ now, if so be you ‘m wishful to tak’ ye whack at me—­why, let it be a good un, Peter.”

“No, I shall never raise my hand to you again, George.”

“‘Tis likely you be thinkin’ me a poor sort o’ man, arter what —­what I just told ’ee—­a coward?”

“I think you more of a man than ever,” said I.

“Why, then, Peter—­if ye do think that, here’s my hand—­if ye’ll tak’ it, an’ I—­bid ye—­good-by!”

“I’ll take your hand—­and gladly, George, but not to wish you goodby—­it shall be, rather, to bid you welcome home again.”

“No,” he cried.  “No—­I couldn’t—­I couldn’t abide to see you an’—­Prue—­married, Peter—­no, I couldn’t abide it.”

“And you never will, George.  Prue loves a stronger, a better man than I. And she has wept over him, George, and prayed over him, such tears and prayers as surely might win the blackest soul to heaven, and has said that she would marry that man—­ah! even if he came back with fetter-marks upon him—­even then she would marry him—­if he would only ask her.”

“Oh, Peter!” cried George, seizing my shoulders in a mighty grip and looking into my eyes with tears in his own, “oh, man, Peter —­you as knocked me down an’ as I love for it—­be this true?”

“It is God’s truth!” said I, “and look!—­there is a sign to prove I am no liar—­look!” and I pointed towards “The Bull.”

George turned, and I felt his fingers tighten suddenly, for there, at the open doorway of the inn, with the early glory of the morning all about her, stood Prue.  As we watched, she began to cross the road towards the smithy, with laggard step and drooping head.