Bartja, too, generally so full of fun and spirit, looked down at her
without speaking, the color mounting to his cheeks.

The silence, however, did not last long, for Sappho, recovering from her
fright, burst into a laugh of childish delight at the silent stranger and
the odd scene, and fled towards the house like a timid fawn.

In a moment Bartja was himself again; in two strides he reached the young
girl, quick as thought seized her hand and held it fast, notwithstanding
all her struggles.

"Let me go!" she cried half in earnest and half laughing, raising her
dark eyes appealingly to him.

"Why should I?" he answered. "I took you from the rose-bush and shall
hold you fast until you give me your sister there, the other rose, from
your bosom, to take home with me as a keepsake."

"Please let me go," repeated Sappho, "I will promise nothing unless you
let my hand go."

"But if I do, you will not run away again?"

"Certainly not."

"Well, then, I will give you your liberty, but now you must give me your
rose."

"There are plenty on the bush yonder, and more beautiful ones; choose
whichever you like. Why do you want just this one?"