“Alone, yes,” she answered through chattering teeth; “the servants rode away for help, God knows how long ago.… Perchance they are lost in the snow, dead, somewhere. Indeed, with this cold, I shall soon be dead, too!” “Nay, madam, you are saved,” said Farrant, dismounting hastily. Trembling with excitement, he tore his cloak from his shoulders to cast it about the slender figure that swayed as it stood; then he swung himself into the saddle again, and, stooping, caught her hands in both of his. “Can you put your foot on my boot?” he asked. “Nay, then, by this mound. So—now in my arms! (On, Bess!) You are not afraid? Courage, madam, ’tis but a few yards to my house, to warmth and shelter!” His arms still shook with excitement as he grasped the muffled figure and the reins as best he might. And the mare slowly lifted her heavy hoofs stable-ward again. His frenzy lest his chance should escape, his evil joy over his prize, burned like fire in his veins. And something of his blood heat seemed to pass into the half-frozen woman. She stirred with more vitality in his grasp, settled herself with more definite volition on the mare’s broad shoulder, and heaved a sigh of returning energy. Suddenly she started; and he clutched her, alarmed. “My servants!” she said, and turned her head so that her breath fanned his cheeks. Her dilated eyes were close to his in the snow-light. “Madam?” He held her the tighter and urged forward. “My servants, sir,” she repeated, a thrill of impatience running through her quick utterance. “They will return to find me gone!” “Why, then,” he made answer, driving his heels into their steed’s bulging sides, “I will even send presently to the coach, and warn them of your safety.… They will be welcome likewise.… But we must go on—yonder is my gate—a very little while and you shall be by the fireside.” As he turned off the road he cast a look backward down the slope and noticed a brace of yellow lights bobbing through the misty white of the valley: the traveller’s servants were returning with succour. Not a minute too much had fate granted him! But are not the ready ever the successful? His boyish face was astir with silent laughter as he gathered the lady into his arms upon the threshold of his own door-step. III THE RANSOM