During her wanderings that day she had seen notices, "Death to the White Knight!" and offers of a reward for his capture. She had heard the people's vituperation, the anathemas at the mere mention of his name, and had realized how the hunt for him was up, how the Communists were searching for him high and low. What had she done? Delivered into their hands one of their own vile crowd, letting them believe that he was the White Knight. Him they would assuredly hang, and then, with the White Knight apparently dead, the chase for him would cease, making his work of rescue twice as easy--she did not allow herself to think that through her denunciation an innocent man would hang. She consoled herself that, anyway, such as he more than deserved death. Fondly believing that she had rendered a great service to her unknown hero, her heart beat with gratitude to the kindly Fate which had permitted her to give him a helping hand. So ran the current of her thoughts, and intermingled with them were two distinct scenes which constantly reverted to her mind. The first was of the kiss which Wenzel had implanted upon her unsuspecting lips. It had been as sweet as that of a lover, as gentle and innocent as that of a child, when it might have been so different, and as a paradox it puzzled her. It was so absolutely foreign to his nature as she knew it, and it seemed almost as though she had gazed upon a slimy, weedy pond, from out the green vegetation of which had peeped the pure whiteness of a water-lily. When she closed her eyes she could feel again the velvet of his lips; if she could have only thrust away the vision of his mutilated, repulsive features she believed her heart might have thrillingly responded--then she chided herself for the very thought. So with an effort she thrust from her mind the memory of the kiss, but in its place was substituted, even more vividly, the moment when he had stood before her, mad with rage. "Delilah!" Why had he termed her Delilah? She had betrayed him, but only in self-defence. How could she have played Delilah to his Samson? Samson! Him the name justly described--seven men hanging on to every part of his body, their united strength against his, yet it had taken a pistol-butt to defeat him, a treacherous blow from behind. The next moment all these thoughts were driven from her mind as she heard a pounding on the door. Her heart leaped in dismay, then an icy chill settled round it, while her nerves twitched. She feared to give her imagination full play. She seemed to see a scene in the street, the scarred man recovering from his blow, breaking loose, and returning for revenge.