still;--and, laying her cheek against his arm, rubs it lightly,
caressingly, up and down.

"Look here!" says he quickly, catching her by both arms, and holding
her a little away from him; "I have a question to ask you."

"There is always a question," says she, smiling still, "between
friends and foes, then why not between--_lovers?"_

She lingers over the word, and, stooping her graceful head, runs her
lips lightly across the hand that is holding her right arm.

A shiver runs through Rylton. Is she true or false? But, however it
goes, how exquisite she is!

"And now your question," says she; "how slow you are to ask it. Now
_what_ is it?--what--what?"

"Shall I ask it, Marian? I have asked it too often before."

He is holding her arms very tightly now, and his eyes are bent on
hers. Once again he is under the spell of her beauty.

"Ask--ask what you will!" cries she. She laughs gaily, and throws
back her head. The last rays of the sunlight catch her hair, and
lift it to a very glory round her beautiful face. "Go on, go on,"
she says lightly. There is, perhaps, some defiance in her tone, but,
if so, it only strengthens her for the fight. "I am your captive!"
She gives a little expressive downward glance at his hands, as he
holds her arms. "Speak, my lord! and your slave answers." She has