They were in a lonely glade, dark with the shade of beeches, when he made this apparently honest declaration; and he stood before her forbidding her to advance further or to avoid his entreaty. Her confusion, natural to her womanhood, he interpreted in its true light. "She does not love me, but there is that in her blood which will give me command over her," he said. And this was the precise truth. Evelyn had, from the first, been fully aware of the strange spell this man could put upon her. His presence seemed to her as that of the figure of evil beckoning her to wild pleasures and forbidden gardens of delight. Strong as her will was, this she could not combat. And she shrank from him, helpless, and yet aware of his power. "You are speaking to me of grave things," she said quietly. "My own feelings must not enter into them. If my father owes this debt to you, he shall pay it. I will be no part of the price, Count Odin." "_Cara mia_," he said, taking both her hands and trying to draw her close to him, "I care not how it is if you shall say you love me. Do not hide the truth from yourself. Your father is in great danger. You can save him from the penalties of wrong. Will you refuse to do so because I love you--love you as I have never believed a man could love; love you as my father loved your mother so many years ago--with the love of a race that has fought for women and died for them; a race which is deaf when a women says no, which follows her, _cara mia_, to the end of the earth and has eyes for nothing else but the house which shelters her? Will you do this when your heart can command me as you will--saying, speak or be silent, forget or remember? I know you better; you love me, Evelyn; you are afraid to tell me, but you love me. That is why I remain a prisoner of this house--because you love me, and I shall make you my wife. Ah, _cara mia_, say it but once--I love you, Georges, the son of my father's friend--I love you and will not forbid your words." A strange thrill ran through Evelyn's veins as she listened to this passionate declaration. The frenzied words of love did not deceive her. This man, she thought, would so speak to many a woman in the years to come. A better wit would have concealed his purpose and rendered him less frank. "He would sell his father's liberty at my bidding," she said, and the thought set her struggling in his arms, flushed with anger and with shame. "I will not hear you, Count," she cried again and again. "I cannot love you--you are not of my people. If my father has done wrong, he shall repay. He is not so helpless that he cannot save me from this. Oh, please let me go; your hands hurt me. I can never be your wife, never, never!" [Illustration: "Oh please let me go; your hands hurt me. I can never be your wife, never, never!"] He released her reluctantly, for his quick ear had caught the sound of a horse galloping upon the open grass beyond the thicket.