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She did not dare to lift her head, but it seemed to her that the sound of the thudding hoofs died very quickly away. For seconds that seemed like hours she crouched there in the afternoon stillness. Then at last–at last–she ventured to raise herself–to turn and look.

And in that moment she knew the agony that pierces every nerve with a physical anguish in the face of sudden horror. For there, close to her, was Dinghra, on foot, not six paces away, and drawing softly nearer. There was a faint smile on his face. His eyes were fixed and devilish.

With a gasp she sprang up, and the next moment was running wildly away, away, down the forest path, heedless of the rough ground, of the stones and roots that tore her bare feet, running like a mad creature, with sobbing breath, and limbs that staggered, compel them though she might.

She did not run far. Her flight ended as suddenly as it had begun in a violent, headlong fall. A long streamer of bramble had tripped her unaccustomed feet. She was conscious for an instant of the horrible pain of it as she was flung forward on her hands.

And then came the touch that she dreaded, the sinewy hands lifting her, the sinister face looking into hers.

“You should never run away from destiny,” said Dinghra softly. “Destiny can always catch you up.”

She gasped and shuddered. She was shaking all over, too crushed, too shattered, for speech.

He set her on her feet.

“We will go back,” he said, keeping his arm about her. “You have had a pleasant sleep? I am sorry you awoke so soon.”

But she stood still, her wild eyes searching the forest depths.

“Oh, let me go!” she cried out suddenly. “Oh, do let me go!”

His arm tightened, but still he smiled.

“Never again. I have had some trouble to find you, but you are mine now for ever–or at least”–and the snarl of the beast was in his voice–“for as long as I want you.”

She resisted him, striving to escape that ever-tightening arm.

“No!” she cried in an agony. “No! No! No!”

His hold became a vice-like grip. Without a word he forced her back with him along the way she had come. She limped as she went, and he noted it with a terrible smile.

“It would have been better if you hadn’t run away,” he said.

“Oh, do let me go!” she begged again through her white lips. “Why do you persecute me like this? I have never done you any harm.”

“Except laugh at me,” he answered. “But you will never do that again, at least.”

And then, finding her weight upon him, he stopped and lifted her in his arms.

She covered her face with her hands, and he laughed above her head.

“It is a dangerous amusement,” he said, “to laugh at Dinghra. There are not many who dare. There is not one who goes unpunished.”

He bore her back to her resting-place. He set her on her feet and drew her hands away, holding her firmly by the wrists.

“Now tell me,” he said “it is the last time I shall ever ask you–will you marry me?”

“Never!” she cried.

“Be careful!” he broke in warningly. “That is not your answer. Look at me! Look into my eyes! Do you think you are wise in giving me such an answer as that?”

But she would not meet his eyes. She dared not.

“Listen!” he said. “Your mother has given you to me. She will never speak to you again, except as my promised wife. I have sworn to her that I will make you accept me. No power on earth can take you from me. Ernestine, listen! You are the only woman who ever resisted me, and for that I am going to make you what I have never desired to make any woman before,–my wife–not my servant; my queen–not my slave. I can give you everything under the sun. You will be a princess. You will have wealth, jewels such as you have never dreamed of, palaces, servants, honour–“