“We’ve got to go on, and faster,” said the young man.  His hands were clenched; his arms were stiff at his side.  “Can you do it?” he asked Betty Dalrymple.  She answered; standing in a green recess, she had never appeared more beautiful to him than in that moment of peril.  Green and red things flashed behind her—­tiny feathered creatures that shone like jewels.  The dewdrops from the branches in sunless places were glistening brilliants in the gold of her hair.  But he had no time to gaze.  The figures were drawing nearer.

“You used to be able to run, Betty.  It seems as if it’s all my fault”—­hoarsely—­“but you’ll have to do so now.”

Again that ready response from her!  Did she, in the excitement of the moment, call him by a Christian name not Horatio?  He did not take cognizance of it; neither did Sonia Turgeinov seem to.

The latter spoke quickly:  “I remain here.”

“Of course,” said Mr. Heatherbloom, with a glance back toward the open space.

She overlooked the significance or bitterness in his accent.  “Keep to the right,” she said swiftly.  “Believe me or not, I’ll send them to the left.  It’s your only chance.  Otherwise they would overtake you in an hour.  Among the prince’s men are Cossacks trained to feats of endurance.”

“You would do that?” He looked at her quickly.  The dark eyes did not swerve from the gray ones.

“Did I betray you on the boat?” said Sonia Turgeinov rather haughtily.

“No,” he conceded.

“And yet I knew you!  You know that,” she affirmed.

“Yes; you knew me.”  Slowly.

“Did I tell his excellency who you were, when he had you, a prisoner?” she demanded.

And—­“No,” he was obliged to say again.

“See.”  She took from her breast a tiny cross.  “I had that as a child.  Would I kiss it, and—­tell you a lie in the next breath?” He did not answer.  “I have lived up to the letter of my contract with his excellency.  It is at an end.  Perhaps I am a little sorry for my own part”—­with a laugh slightly reckless—­“or maybe”—­with a flash of seriousness—–­ “I have become, in the least, afraid.  Your laws are very severe, and—­I had not counted on mademoiselle’s steadfast resistance to—­mon Dieu!—­a prince who had been considered irresistible—­whose principality is larger than one of your states—­who would have made her, in truth, a czaritza.  I had fancied,” in a rush of words, “the mad episode might end as it did in the prince’s favorite Fire and Sword trilogy, with wedding-bells and rejoicing.”  She paused abruptly.  “I had also not counted on the all-important possibility that mademoiselle might have bestowed her heart on another—­”

“Madam!” It was Betty Dalrymple who spoke quickly.

Sonia Turgeinov laughed maliciously.  “Go,” she said, “or”—­almost fiercely—­“I may change my mind.”

They went; Sonia Turgeinov turned and looked out over the open space. 
The approaching figures were now much nearer.