It was as if her will-power were temporarily in abeyance. This man was her master, and she had no choice but to obey his behests. She began to move as one in a dream, dimly counting her halting footsteps, vaguely wondering how many more she would accomplish. And then quite suddenly she seemed as it were to reach a point where endurance snapped. She pitched forward, against his supporting arm. “I can’t go—” she cried out—“I can’t go—any further.” He caught her as she fell. She was conscious of the brief physical comfort afforded by the warmth of his body as he held her. Then, oddly, over her head she heard him speak as if addressing someone beyond her. “That settles it,” he said. “It’s not my fault.” She knew that he lowered her to the ground, still holding her, and began to rub her numbed and powerless hands. CHAPTER IX THE LIONS’ DEN “From all evil and mischief, from sin, from the crafts and assaults of the devil” . . . Someone was saying the words. Frances opened her eyes upon blank darkness, and knew that her own lips had uttered them. She was lying in some sort of shelter, though how she had come thither she had no notion. The rain was beating monotonously upon a roof of corrugated iron. She lay listening to it, feeling helpless as a prisoner clamped to the wall. And then another voice spoke in the darkness, and her heart stood still. “That’s right. You’re better. Gad, what a fright you gave me! Now do stop raving! You’re only tired and a bit faint.” “I am not—raving,” she said. “I am only—I am only—” Again without her conscious volition she knew herself to be uttering those words she had heard: “From all evil, and mischief, from sin, from the crafts and assaults of the devil—” She paused a moment, groping as it were for more, then:—“Good Lord, deliver us!” she said, and it was as if her soul were speaking in the darkness. “Frances!” a voice cried sharply, and she stopped, stopped even her breathing, to listen. “Stop talking that absurd rot! Be sensible! Try to be sensible!” “I am only—praying,” she said. “Well, don’t! It isn’t the time for saying prayers. I want you to attend to me. You know what has happened?” His voice sounded curt and imperious. She peered into the darkness, wishing she could see his face. “I don’t know,” she made answer wonderingly. “How should I know?” “I brought you here,” he said. “You fainted.” “How stupid of me!” she murmured apologetically. “It was rather.” His voice was grim. “But you’ve got back your senses, and for heaven’s sake keep them! This is just an old cattleshed on the moors and it’s all the shelter we shall get to-night.” “Oh!” said Frances, and in her voice dismay and relief were strangely mingled. “It was better than the open moor. But yet—but yet——” He spoke again with a species of humorous ruefulness. “Here we are, and here we’ve got to stay! That damned fog has defeated us. We can’t hope to move before morning.”