"That's she, back there upon the pony." said Maryann. "wi' her face a-covered up in that black cloth with holes in it."
Oak, his features smudged, grimy, and undiscoverable from the smoke and heat, his smock-frock burnt-into holes and dripping with water, the ash stem of his sheepcrook charred six inches shorter, advansed with the humility stern adversity had thrust upon him up to the slight female form in the saddle. He lifted his hat with respect, and not without gallantry: stepping close to her hanging feet he said in a hesitating voice, -"Do you happen to want a shepherd, ma'am?"
She lifted the wool veil tied round her face, and looked all astonishment. Gabriel and his cold-hearted darling, Bathsheba Everdene, were face to face.
Bathsheba did not speak, and he mechanically repeated in an abashed and sad voice, -"Do you want a shepherd, ma'am?"