“I am not likely to forget it,” she answered. “Well, last night he did mesmerize you.” “What?” she said. “_What?_ Oh! how dreadful! Now I understand it all. But when?” “When you were sound asleep, I suppose. At least, the first I knew of it was that some noise woke me, and I came out of the hut to see you following him like a dead woman, with a lamp in your hand.” Then he told her all the story, while she listened aghast. “How dared he!” she gasped, when her father had finished the long tale. “I hate him; I almost wish that you had killed him,” and she clenched her little hands and shook them in the air. “That is not very Christian of you, Miss Clifford,” said a voice behind her. “But it is past one o’clock, and as I am still alive I have come to tell you that it is time for luncheon.” Benita wheeled round upon the stone on which she sat, and there, standing amidst the bushes a little way from the foot of the wall, was Jacob Meyer. Their eyes met; hers were full of defiance, and his of conscious power. “I do not want any luncheon, Mr. Meyer,” she said. “But I am sure that you do. Please come down and have some. Please come down.” The words were spoken humbly, almost pleadingly, yet to Benita they seemed as a command. At any rate, with slow reluctance she climbed down the shattered wall, followed by her father, and without speaking they went back to their camping place, all three of them, Jacob leading the way. When they had eaten, or made pretence to eat, he spoke. “I see that your father has told you everything, Miss Clifford, and of that I am glad. As for me, it would have been awkward, who must ask your forgiveness for so much. But what could I do? I knew, as I have always known, that it was only possible to find this treasure by your help. So I gave you something to make you sleep, and then in your sleep I hypnotized you, and--you know the rest. I have great experience in this art, but I have never seen or heard of anything like what happened, and I hope I never shall again.” Hitherto Benita had sat silent, but now her burning indignation and curiosity overcame her shame and hatred. “Mr. Meyer,” she said, “you have done a shameful and a wicked thing, and I tell you at once that I can never forgive you.” “Don’t say that. Please don’t say that,” he interrupted in tones of real grief. “Make allowances for me. I had to learn, and there was no other way. You are a born clairvoyante, one among ten thousand, my art told me so, and you know all that is at stake.” “By which you mean so many ounces of gold, Mr. Meyer.” “By which I mean the greatness that gold can give, Miss Clifford.”