Stead made unusual haste
to reply to prevent her from speaking.
"She is biding with us till she can join her father, or knows how it
is with him."
"Humph! She hath not the look of one of the daughters of our
people."
"Nay," said Steadfast. "I went down last night to the mill, Jeph, to
see whether perchance you might be hurt and wanting help, and after I
had heard that all was well with you, I lighted on this poor little
maid crouching under a bush, and brought her home with me for pity's
sake till I could find her friends."
"The child of a Midianitish woman!" exclaimed Jeph, "one of the Irish
idolaters of whom it is written, 'Thou shalt smite them, and spare
neither man, nor woman, infant, nor suckling.'" "But I am not
Irish," broke out Emlyn, "I am from Worcestershire. My father is
Serjeant Gaythorn, butler to Sir Harry Blythedale. Don't let him
kill me," she cried in an access of terror, throwing herself on
Steadfast's breast.
"No, no. He would not harm thee, on mine hearth. Fear not, little
one, he _shall_ not.
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