that instant had she possessed the means to her hand. But her strength
was more nearly exhausted than she knew. Her limbs doubled up under
her weight, and as she tottered, seeking for support, she realised
that she was vanquished utterly at last.

She saw him wheel quickly and start to support her, sought to evade
him, failed--and as she felt his arms lift her, she cried aloud in
anguished helplessness.

What followed dwelt ever after in her memory as a hideous dream, vivid
yet not wholly tangible. He laid her down upon the couch and bent over
her, his hands upon her, holding her still; for every muscle, every
nerve twitched spasmodically, convulsively, in the instinctive effort
of the powerless body to be free. She had a confused impression also
that he spoke to her, but what he said she was never able to recall.
In the end, her horror faded, and she saw him as through a mist
bending above her, grim and tense and silent, controlling her as it
were from an immense distance. And even while she yet dimly wondered,
he passed like a shadow from her sight, and wonder itself ceased.

Half an hour later Nicholas Ratcliffe, the wit and clown of his
regiment, regarded by many as harebrained or wantonly reckless,
carried away from the beleaguered fort among the hostile mountains the
slight, impassive figure of an English girl.

The night was dark, populated by terrors alive and ghastly. But he
went through it as one unaware of its many dangers. Light-footed and
fearless, he passed through the midst of his enemies, marching with
the sublime audacity of the dominant race, despising caution--yea,
grinning triumphant in the very face of Death.