this colloquy passed in darkness. Now he pressed it. A girlish figure
was revealed, one protective arm thrown across the eyes.

"Don't strike me," said the girl again, and again Banneker's heart was
shaken within him by such tremors as the crisis of some deadly fear
might cause.

"You needn't be afraid," he stammered.

"I've never been afraid before," she said, hanging her weight away from
him. "Won't you let me go?"

His grip relaxed slightly, then tightened again. "Where to?"

"I don't know," said the appealing voice mournfully.

An inspiration came to Banneker. "Are you afraid of me?" he asked
quietly.

"Of every thing. Of the night."

He pressed the flash into her hand, turning the light upon himself.
"Look," he said.

It seemed to him that she could not fail to read in his face the
profound and ardent wish to help her; to comfort and assure an uneasy
and frightened spirit wandering in the night.

He heard a little, soft sigh. "I don't know you," said the voice. "Do
I?"