“My soul is yours,” he said. “I will not come near the house nor let the cats come--till you call us with the song I taught you. I will keep away from the house. But, _querida mia_, do not go with him again! This time I will be quicker, and save you.” “Go!” said the girl in a frantic whisper, hearing Heriot breaking through the bushes. “Go, till I do call you.” Almost as she spoke Heriot sprang out into the open space. Was he dreaming, or did he see beside the girl in her white gown a crouching thing like an ape? He ran to her, round the pool. There should be an end of this thing that hunted women! Mad or sane, the man deserved no more mercy than a venomous beast. But as he reached the girl he stopped short. She was absolutely alone. “Run to the house!” he cried. “That brute’s behind you, and I’m going to finish him once for all. Did he hurt you?” he cried savagely. She lifted her face, and he saw she was crying. “No, no,” she said as gently as Andria might. “Nothing hurt me. And--there’s no one here!” “But I saw him,” replied Heriot grimly. “And I heard you scream.” She laid a quick hand on his arm as he would have passed her. “There’s no one here; if there was, he’s gone,” she said. “I did not mean to scream. Did I frighten Andria?” “What was it?” he insisted almost roughly, for he was certain he had seen that crouching, wizened figure at her side, though there was no sign of it now, nor even a leaf stirring in the warm moonlight. Instead of answering she looked him in the face with the moonlight full on her strange, tawny eyes till they looked like wells of light, deep and golden. Something in them seemed to strike him like a blow. Yesterday they had been a child’s eyes, careless, almost shallow. To-night--Heriot’s heart began to pound. The girl had come into her birthright of womanhood, of a marvelous witchery that would be a snare to the feet of men. “What made you scream, Beryl?” and this time he did not speak as to a child. “Tell me.” “I lost myself. It was dark. I meant to call, and I suppose I screamed.” She could not tell the truth, for the old shame that was on her that beasts and strange creatures loved and obeyed her. “Why did you leave Erle?” though Heaven knew it was no business of his! “You were in his charge. What did he mean by letting you come back by yourself?” “He couldn’t help it,” she said, with a laugh in her eyes. “I led him a dance, you know. He went away disgusted, for he couldn’t find me.” “Do you like him?” asked Heriot. There was a curious look in the handsome face that had seldom darkened for any woman’s words. “I don’t know,” said Beryl, with provocation. “When I find out shall I tell you?” There was the faintest stir in the thicket, and suddenly Heriot knew that whatever the evening’s adventures had been she did not mean him to know them. “Oh, I!” he said lightly; “just as you like.” He led the way up the path in silence till they reached the open ground and could see the house.