Despairing fear seized Catherine. She did not move nor answer and her heart bounded in her as though it would beat her side to pieces. As the knock sounded again she hid her face in her palms. When she looked up the door was open, and a tall figure stood on the threshold, with a star looking over either shoulder out of the patch of fathomless sky framed in the doorway. She could not even scream as Heber Moorhouse strode towards her, but she was aware of a horse which stood outside and the warm contact of a man's hands as they closed over her own. "I've come for ye, Catherine," he said, drawing her to her feet. She tried to free her hands, but he held them fast. "Saunders shan't have ye," he went on. "When he comes to Pencoed in the morning there'll be nobody to meet him but Mrs. Job. You're coming with me." "I can't--I can't--" she exclaimed desperately. "He shan't have you," said Heber again, as if he had not heard her. "D'ye think I've ridden all this way for nothing?" "It's too late. There's nought to be done now," cried the girl. "Go--go, Heber. Let me be! Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?" "You'll do what I bid you. Come, Catherine; it's best done first as last. I've got a cloak for you there on the saddle." The horse moved outside, and the sound sent Black Heber to the door. All was as still as death, and he turned back. "There's no time to lose," said he. "Come, be a good girl." As he spoke an imperceptible stir of air flicked at the candle-flame and its shine struck on the gold ring with a device of clasped hands on Catherine's finger. He took her almost roughly by the wrist. "Take that off," he said; "you'll need it no more." She shook her head. "Take it off," he repeated again, standing over her. She hesitated and then obeyed. It looked as though the action had decided her fate. He took the ring from her and laid it on the table. "Saunders 'll find it there safe," he observed, smiling, "and it's all he'll find." He drew her outside to the high doorstep, and, taking the cloak from the strap on the saddle, he put it round her. She was as passive as if the loss of her ring had mesmerised her. She felt destiny slipping from her hold and the relief from its weight was well-nigh grateful to her in her bewilderment. But she was being forced to do a terrible thing, and she could not even tell whether or no it was against her will. If only Mrs. Job would come back and either bid her go with this man or save her from him! It was not Heber's mountain pony that waited outside, but a big, dark horse, seeming colossal to Catherine in the uncertainty of the night. While she stood on the step he leaped into the saddle. "Now," said he, "put your foot on mine and come." She drew back, a last protest on her lips; as it left them he leaned down and gripped her by both arms. "Step up," he said.