"Then if you think you dare, you had better kiss me," says I, haughtily.
'Twas the tone I had withered princes with. I drew up all my inches, and I am not a little woman; I set back my head; I put a regal lift into my chin; I looked upon him from a snow-capped altitude; and again and again my eyes did strike him with disdain. I did not think the man was made who could have kissed me then. For 'twas not an invitation, you understand; it was a flat defiance.
He sent a look at me, and then recoiled with something of a shiver. He sent another and fell into a kind of trembling, and I could see that fear of me was springing in his eyes. My will was matched against his own; and it was now a case of mastery. But 'twas his that did prevail. A third time he came with his fiery look; I quailed before it, and next instant his lips had known my cheek.
"My lad," says I, and I was shaking like a leaf, "I think you are formed for greatness. Do you know that there is not another man in England who could have dared that deed?"
"And strike me pale!" says he, "don't ask me to dare it any more. I much prefer the whipping-post."
And whiter than before he sat upon the bed in a condition pretty much the equal of my own.
"What, you've known the whipping-post?" I cried. "What adventures you have had! And brought up in a priory. Now tell me all about 'em."
"Three times to the whipping-post," says he,
