shelter."

"No," says I. "No--I am a thing of the roads, and well enough in
hedge or rick!" and I would have turned but her hand upon my
sleeve restrained me.

"Sir," says she, "be you what you will, you are a man! Who you
are I know and care not--but you have this night wrought that I
shall nevermore forget and now I--we--would fain express our
gratitude--"

"Indeed and indeed!" said the maid Marjorie, speaking for the
first time.

"I want no gratitude!" says I, mighty gruff.

"Yet shall it follow thee, for the passion of gratitude is strong
and may not be denied--even by beggar so proud and arrogant!"
And now, hearkening to this voice, so deep and soft and strangely
sweet, I knew not if she laughed at me or no; but even as I
debated this within myself, she lifted my hand, the hand that
grasped the knife, and I felt the close, firm pressure of two
warm, soft lips; then she had freed me and I fell back a step,
striving for speech yet finding none.

"God love me!" quoth I at last. "Why must you--do so!"

And wherefore not?" she questioned proudly.

"'Tis the hand of a vagrant, an outcast, a poor creeper o'