He saw Arrack in front of him—he had taken a key from his waist and had undone a heavy, metal door. Silently Alan crept nearer and nearer to him. He heard the sound of liquid being poured into a glass. He heard Chlorie’s gentle word of thanks. Now he could see the grim tragedy. Chlorie had finished the wine, and was now swaying to and fro; she tottered and fell on to a low couch in a corner of her prison. Arrack watched her until he was convinced she was fast asleep, then he put the wine bottle down and bent over the prostrate girl. He remembered no more—a mighty blow rendered him unconscious, and Alan tied up his unresisting foe, and left him helpless upon the ground. Tenderly he raised Chlorie and bent over her—he was aching to kiss her sweet lips, but he remembered her anguished cry, “Not my lips, Kulmervan, not my lips.” No, until she offered them of her own free will, they should remain sacred to him. He knew she would sleep deeply for some time, so he examined his quarters. Chlorie’s cell was hewn out of the solid rock, with nothing in it but a chair, a table and a settee. There was the passage leading to the log cabin; the one with the glimmer of light that led he knew to the sea shore; and the one to the cave above. To the right, there was a tiny passage that looked almost like a crack in the rock. He peered through—it led on into the distance, and he was determined to try that. Arrack had carried a lamp which gave a good light. Alan picked it up, lifted Chlorie gently, and started down the passage. He wondered whether it would lead to safety, or to adventures even more horrible than many of those he had been through. He held Chlorie tightly; he was determined not to lose her again. Again the passage opened out into a cave—narrowed, and a still larger cave came into view. He saw a niche high up in the wall, and with his precious burden, he managed to reach it in safety. He found himself on a high narrow ledge, where they could rest in safety from the machinations of Kulmervan. Chlorie woke to find her head supported by a strong arm, and her hands held between two firm ones. She looked up. “Alan,” she breathed, and made a tiny movement towards him. “My Chlorie,” he murmured, and their lips met in one warm long kiss. “Oh, my darling, you really love me?” he said brokenly at last. “My Alan, I know not the customs of your world. In mime, it is shame to a maid who offers her lips before she is wed. Indeed, a maid would never be thus,” and she slipped from the circle of his arm—“even were she sworn to wed. I know not your customs, my Alan, but I am Ipso-Rorka, and my father’s child. I—I love you, Alan—” “And you’ll be my wife?” he asked tenderly. Shyly she hid her face on his breast “In truth, my Alan,—’tis sweeter far to be asked, than ask. I am glad you are of a different world—for your wooing is stronger and yet more sweet than ours. Oh, willingly, willingly, Alan, will I marry you.”