“You,” is the laconic answer, as the speaker seizes her by the arm, and deftly getting behind her, endeavours to draw her two elbows together. The pain is excruciating, but Speranza’s blood is up. She is no weakly woman, helpless with life-long inactivity and want of muscle power. She is strong and flexible as wire, and makes her assailant feel this too, as with a wrench she frees herself, and springs backward behind him, facing them both once more. With a foul oath the man who had first attacked her bares a short, ugly-looking knife, and his companion does so as well. “No use resisting!” exclaims this latter. “If you do you’ll get a taste of these. Better come quietly.” She does not even answer them. Her lovely head is thrown back, her blue eyes shoot defiance, even while in them trembles the look of despair. Her hands hang clenched by her side, but she never quails for a second. They rush at her, their knives poised threateningly. She seizes the blades with both her hands, and holds them with the grim clutch of a last great effort. With a brutal laugh they jerk them backwards, and the sharp, keen edges cut clean into her tightly closed palms. Out pours the rich, dark blood from the cruel, gaping wounds, as with a low cry, the first that has escaped her, she lets go her hold. Then, with the ferocity of tigers, they spring upon, and force her to the ground. In another moment the gag is on her mouth, tight straps are round her arms and ankles, and she is a prisoner at their feet. “Come on quick, now!” exclaims one of the men. “My, Bill! she be a strong, plucky one, and no mistake! If it ’adn’t been for that there root we shouldn’t have mastered her so easily—no, nor we should.” The root referred to is the jagged, stumpy end of a fallen tree. Against this Speranza’s head had struck in falling, rendering her senseless. No wonder they tied her so easily. They lift her between them, and carry her across the copsewood towards a low hedge, outside which lies the road. Over this they hoist her, and then lay her down on the pathway, one of them giving a long, low whistle. There is an answering whistle down the road, a rumbling and stamping as of carriage wheels and horses’ feet. Two lights gleam through the darkness, like the eyes of some terrible monster, and the next moment a carriage dashes up. “Got her?” inquires a thin, spare man, jumping out. “Right as a trivet, sir,” they answer. “Well, put her in! Look sharp; no time to lose. I thought I heard footsteps as I came along,” and Mr. Trackem, for it is he, holds open the door. They obey his orders without more ado, and then he jumps in. “Now then! look alive, men! One on the box, one in with her and me.” It is done. The men are “sharp uns.” They know their master, and he knows his men. The next moment the carriage is bowling along towards Windsor, _en route_ for London. Who will track them, who discover them? Not the detectives of Scotland Yard! [Illustration]