"Madam," said I, looking down upon my bleeding knuckles, "I am
not Sir Maurice Vibart. It seems my fate to be mistaken for him
wherever I go. My name is Peter, plain and unvarnished, and I am
very humbly your servant." Now as I spoke, it seemed that the
Daemon, no longer the jovial companion, was himself again, horns,
hoof, and tail--nay, indeed, he seemed a thousand times more foul
and hideous than before, as he mouthed and jibed at me in baffled
fury; wherefore, I smiled and turned my back upon him.
"Come," said I, extending my hand to the trembling girl, "let us
get out of these dismal woods." For a space she hesitated,
looking up at me beneath her lashes, then reached out, and laid
her fingers in mine; and, as we turned away, I knew that the
Daemon had cast himself upon the ground, and was tearing at the
grass in a paroxysm of rage and bafflement.
"It is strange," said I, after we had gone some little distance,
"very strange that you should only have discovered this
resemblance here, and now, for surely you saw my face plainly
enough at the inn."
"No; you see, I hardly looked at you."
"And, now that you do look at me, am I so very much like Sir
Maurice?"
"Not now," she answered, shaking her head, "for though you are of
his height, and though your features are much the same as his,
your expression is different. But--a moment ago--when your hat
fell off--"
"Yes?" said I.
"Your expression--your face looked--"
"Demoniac?" I suggested.
"Yes," she answered.
"Yes?" said I.
So we went upon our way, nor paused until we had left the Daemon
and the dark woods behind us. Then I looked from the beauty of
the sweet, pure earth to the beauty of her who stood beside me,
and I saw that her glance rested upon the broken knuckles of my
right hand. Meeting my eyes, her own drooped, and a flush crept
into her cheeks, and, though of course she could not have seen
the Daemon, yet I think that she understood.