"rougher, perhaps, than the
gay gallants of Bideford, who serenade you, and write sonnets to you,
and send you posies. Rougher, but more loving, Rose! Do not turn away!
I shall die if you take your eyes off me! Tell me,--tell me, now
here--this moment--before we part--if I may love you!"

"Go away!" she answered, struggling, and bursting into tears. "This is
too rude. If I am but a merchant's daughter. I am God's child. Remember
that I am alone. Leave me; go! or I will call for help!"

Eustace had heard or read somewhere that such expressions in a woman's
mouth were mere facons de parler, and on the whole signs that she had no
objection to be alone, and did not intend to call for help; and he only
grasped her hands the more fiercely, and looked into her face with keen
and hungry eyes; but she was in earnest, nevertheless, and a loud shriek
made him aware that, if he wished to save his own good name, he must
go: but there was one question, for an answer to which he would risk his
very life.

"Yes, proud woman! I thought so! Some one of those gay gallants has been
beforehand with me. Tell me who--"

But she broke from him, and passed him, and fled down the lane.

"Mark it!" cried he, after her. "You shall rue the day when you despised
Eustace Leigh! Mark it, proud beauty!" And he turned back to join
Campian, who stood in some trepidation.

"You have not hurt the maiden, my son? I thought I heard a scream."

"Hurt her! No. Would God that she were dead, nevertheless, and I by her!
Say no more to me, father. We will home." Even Campian knew enough of
the world to guess what had happened, and they both hurried home in
silence.

And so Eustace Leigh played his move, and lost it.

Poor little Rose, having run nearly to Chapel, stopped for very shame,
and walked quietly by the cottages which stood opposite the gate, and
then turned up the lane towards Moorwinstow village, whither she was
bound. But on second thoughts, she felt herself so "red and flustered,"
that she was afraid of going into the village, for fear (as she said to
herself) of making people talk, and so, turning into a by-path, struck
away toward the cliffs, to cool her blushes in the sea-breeze. And there
finding a quiet grassy nook beneath the crest of the rocks, she sat down
on the turf, and fell into a great meditation.

Rose Salterne was a thorough specimen of a West-coast maiden, full of
passionate impulsive affections, and wild dreamy imagination