scream for help."

"You pretty little fool. Much help you'll get here. Oh, you shall look
if you want to, but your wings must be clipped first."

He gripped both her wrists and held them fast. Her frightened eyes
glanced through the window. She heard a confused thud of hoofs, now and
again the deep bellowing of cattle, in the distance dogs barking,
drivers yelling. She could see horned heads moving up and down. The
coach was now moving very slowly. It was surrounded by a drove of
bullocks from the Essex marshes going to Smithfield.

"You see?" laughed Dorrimore. "D'you suppose I would set you down to be
tossed and gored by vulgar cattle. Why the sight of your red ribands
would send them mad, as it's nearly sent me."

"I don't care. I'd rather be with them than with you. I hate you," she
screamed with tears in her voice.

"Really? I'll warrant your hate'll turn to love before we part," he
jeered. "I'm not going to see you come to harm, so I shall hold your
pretty wrists tightly. How round and slender they are! So, you're my
prisoner."

"I'm not and I won't be."

Somehow she dragged her right wrist away and dealt him a smart blow on
his cheek.

"You would fight, would you? What a little spitfire it is! No matter. I