Beatrice thought that he had gone. Yet in her fear she waited for what seemed to her an interminable period. At last she ventured to make a movement. Slowly and cautiously she rose to her feet and advanced. She did not know what direction to take; but she walked on, not caring where she went so long as she could escape pursuit. Scarcely had she taken twenty steps when she heard a noise. Some one was moving. She stood still, breathless. Then she thought she had been mistaken. After waiting a long time she went on as before. She walked faster. The noise came again. It was close by. She stood still for many minutes. Suddenly she bounded up, and ran as one runs for life. Her long rest had refreshed her. Despair gave her strength. But the pursuer was on her track. Swiftly, and still more swiftly, his footsteps came up behind her. He was gaining on her. Still she rushed on. At last a strong hand seized her by the shoulder, and she sank down upon the moss that lay under the forest trees. “Who are you?” cried a familiar voice. “Vijal!” cried Beatrice. The other let go his hold. “Will you betray me?” cried Beatrice, in a mournful and despairing voice. Vijal was silent. “What do you want?” said he, at last. “Whatever you want to do I will help you. I will be your slave.” “I wish to escape.” “Come then--you shall escape,” said Vijal. Without uttering another word he walked on and Beatrice followed. Hope rose once more within her. Hope gave strength. Despair and its weakness had left her. After about half an hour’s walk they reached the park wall. “I thought it was a poacher,” said Vijal, sadly; “yet I am glad it was you, for I can help you. I will help you over the wall.” He raised her up. She clambered to the top, where she rested for a moment. “God bless you, Vijal, and good-by!” said she. Vijal said nothing. The next moment she was on the other side. The road lay there. It ran north away from the village. Along this road Beatrice walked swiftly. CHAPTER XXXIII. “PICKED UP ADRIFT.” On the morning following two travelers left a small inn which lay on the road-side, about ten miles north of Brandon. It was about eight o’clock when they took their departure, driving in their own carriage at a moderate pace along the road. “Look, Langhetti,” said the one who was driving, pointing with his whip to an object in the road directly in front of them. Langhetti raised his head, which had been bowed down in deep abstraction, to look in the direction indicated. A figure was approaching them. It looked like a woman. She walked very slowly, and appeared rather to stagger than to walk. “She appears to be drunk, Despard,” said Langhetti. “Poor wretch, and on this bleak March morning too! Let us stop and see if we can do any thing for her.” They drove on, and as they met the woman Despard stopped.