"No!" she gasped, trying to break free. Still he held her, but she persisted. "It's not right." At last he released her. With this action he too seemed to remember himself, and to refrain, though his reasons were vastly different. "I'm sorry," he said simply. "I'm afraid you quite carry me away." She gazed back at him, his features half hidden in the gloom, trying to understand the source and meaning of his words. It was impossible. "Oh," she said in despair. "I didn't want it to end like this. Couldn't you just embrace me, as you would a friend, and say good-night?" "As a friend ?" So sharp and demanding was his voice, his whole bearing, that she found herself saying, quite against her will: "Please, just give me a little more time. I'm not ready....." And these words, like so many other innocent acts, seemed to achieve an end of their own, altogether separate from what she had intended. Stephen was strangely soothed, and gratified, as if hearing exactly what he wanted to. She felt, as much as saw him smile. He came to her, and embraced her gently. "Oh, Mary," he whispered, as he kissed her cheek. "Thank you for this. Thank you for not giving in. I've been waiting all my life for a feeling, like this." And he kissed her again with heart-breaking softness. Then he stepped away and swiftly mounted. "I'll be back three days hence. We will ride again, and make our love in the fields." And he rode off, leaving her bewildered and unable to reply. And all at once the last light of day was gone. The breeze which had seemed so gentle, now fled before the cold and chilling airs of Night. She retreated into the woeful shelter of the hut, and lay down on the bed in confusion. Ten The prisoner had slept for nearly twenty hours, woken off and on by the cold as his fire grew dim. At such times he would rise only long enough to fuel it once more to a warm and yet (so far as this was possible) a slow burning blaze. He knew the white smoke of the driftwood would be difficult to see, dispersed as it was through the cracks high above, and carried away by the steady breeze from the sea. But still he took no chances, using only pieces that were cracked with age, retaining not the slightest trace of moisture. Then trying to forget his parched throat and empty stomach, he would lie yet again in the sand, sleep remaining the single greatest need. But as night fell again on the interceding day---even as Mary watched the Englishman ride off---he woke for the last time, feeling troubled and restless. So dry had his throat become that each involuntary swallow brought with it a sharp and brittle pain. His mouth felt lined with parchment, and he was dizzy and weak from hunger. He knew that whatever the risks, he could no longer remain where he was, but must find food and drink. And this meant people, of whom life had made him so mistrustful.