“Don’t run!” said Rudolph, and catching the woman roughly about the shoulders, thrust her behind him.  She clutched him tightly by the wounded arm.

The buffalo stared irresolute, with evil eyes.  The naked boy in the green nest brushed a swarm of flies from his handful of sticky sweetmeats, looked up, pounded the clumsy shoulders, and shrilled a command.  Staring doubtfully, and trembling, the buffalo swayed past, the wrinkled armor of his gray hide plastered with dry mud as with yellow ochre.  To the slow click of hoofs, the surly monster, guided by a little child, went swinging down the pastoral shade,—­ancient yet living shapes from a picture immemorial in art and poetry.

“Please,” begged Rudolph, trying with his left hand to loosen her grip.  “Please, that hurts.”

For a second they stood close, their fingers interlacing.  With a touch of contempt, he found that she still trembled, and drew short breath.  Her eyes slowly gathered his meaning.

“Oh, that!” She tore her hand loose, as though burned.  “That!  It was all true, then.  I forgot.”

She caught aside her skirts angrily, and started forward in all her former disdain.  But this, after their brief alliance, was not to be tolerated.

“What was all true?” he insisted.  “You shall not treat me so.  If anybody has a right—­”

After several paces, she flashed about at him in a whirl of words:—­

“All alike, every one of you!  And I was fool enough to think you were different!” The conflict in her eyes showed real, beyond suspicion.  “He told me all about it.  Last evening.  And you dare talk of rights, and come following me here—­”

“Lucky I did,” retorted Rudolph, with sudden spirit; and holding out his wounded arm, indignantly:  “That scratch, if you know how it came—­”

“I know, perfectly.”  She stared as at some crowning impudence.  “He was chicken-hearted.  You came off cheaply.—­I know all you said.  But the one thing I’ll never understand, is where you found the courage, after he struck you, at the club.  You’ll always have that to admire!”

“After he struck”—­A light broke in on Rudolph, somehow.  “Chantel?  Oh, that liar!”

He wheeled and started to go back.

“Wait, stop!” she called, in a strangely altered voice, which brought him up short.  “They’re all with him now.  You can’t—­What did you mean?”

He explained, sulkily at first, but ending in a kind of generous rage.  “So I couldn’t even stand up to him.  And except for Maurice Heywood—­Oh, you need not frown; he’s the best friend I ever had.”

Mrs. Forrester had walked on, with the same cloudy aspect, the same light, impatient step.  He felt the greater surprise when, suddenly turning, she raised toward him her odd, enticing, pointed face, and the friendly mischief of her eyes.

“The best?” she echoed, in the same half-whisper as when she had flattered him, that afternoon in the dusky well of the pagoda stairway.  “The very best friend?  Don’t you think you have a better?”