Drownlands rested both his hands on the pommel of the saddle, with the flail athwart beneath them. He put the handle of the lantern in his mouth, and the upward glare of the light was on his sinister face. He was considering. He did not recognise the girl. His mind was too distraught to think whether or not he had seen her before. She persisted— 'Help us! I have been running. I am out of breath. I saw you ride by on the bank. I called to you, and spoke to you there, and you would do nothing. My dear father is worse. He is dying. You must—you shall help.' He still looked at her. That beautiful face—the sole object shining out of the darkness—fascinated him, in spite of his alarm, his distress. 'I am Cheap Jack Zita. I am the daughter of the poor Cheap Jack. He is taken ill—he cannot get on. He is on the bank—dying. My father!' Then she burst into tears; and in the lantern light Ki saw the sparkling drops race down the smooth cheeks, saw them rise in the great eyes and overflow. He slowly removed the lantern handle from his teeth, and said— 'I cannot be plagued with you. I have other matters that concern me.' He had been alarmed at first, fearing lest his encounter with Runham had been witnessed, lest this girl should be able to testify against him, were he taken to task for the death of his rival and adversary. 'Oh, come! Oh, do come!' sobbed Zita, as she grasped his boot more tightly. 'It was you who called?' 'Yes, it was I.' 'You called me?' 'Yes. There was no one else to call.' 'Oh,' said he, 'you saw no one else? No one with me?' 'No. I ran up the bank as you went by. I spoke to you, but you swore at me.' 'I—I did that?' There was some mistake. She had taken him for the man now beneath the water. 'You shall not go!' cried the girl, clinging desperately to the stirrup. 'You cannot be so heartless as to let my poor father die.' 'What is your father to me? Let go.' 'I will not let go.' He pricked his horse on; but she held to the bridle and arrested it. 'Take care!' said Drownlands. 'I will not be stayed against my will.' She clung to the bridle. 'You may ride over me, and kill me too. I will not let go.' 'What do you mean?' asked he, with a gasp. 'What do you mean by "kill me too"?' 'You shall ride over me, but I shall not let go.' 'But why did you say "kill me too"?' he asked threateningly. 'I will die as well as my father. I do not care to live if he die. How can you leave him? how can you be so cruel?' She broke forth into vehemence that shook her whole frame, and shook the horse whose bridle she grappled. 'What's that?' asked Drownlands, as the horse stumbled. He held up the lantern. On the embankment, under the horse's feet, lay the flail that had been twisted into his tiger-skin. 'I know you—I know you,' said the girl. 'It was you who bought the flail.' Then again, 'My father is ill. He is sitting on the bank; he cannot walk. He will die of the cold if you do not help.'