moving slowly and stealthily along the cushion towards her; and she waited shuddering, a scream on her lips.  The same terror which, a while before, had frozen the cry in her throat, now tried her in another way.  She longed to speak, to shriek, to stand up, to break in one way or any way the hideous silence, the spell that bound her.  Every moment the strain on her nerves grew tenser, the fear lest she should swoon, more immediate, more appalling; and still the man sat in his corner, motionless, peeping at her through his fingers, leering and biding his time.

It was horrible, and it seemed endless.  If she had had a weapon it would have been better.  But she had only her bare hands and her despair; and she might swoon.  At last the carriage swerved sharply to one side, and jolted over a stone; and the man lurched nearer to her, and—­and moaned!

Julia drew a deep breath and leaned forward, scarcely able to believe her ears.  But the man moaned again; and then, as if the shaking had roused him from a state of stupor, sat up slowly in his corner; she saw, peering more closely at him, that he had been strangely huddled before.  At last he lowered his hand from his face and disclosed his features.  It was—­her astonishment was immense—­it was Mr. Thomasson!

In her surprise Julia uttered a cry.  The tutor opened his eyes and looked languidly at her; muttered something incoherent about his head, and shut his eyes again, letting his chin fall on his breast.

But the girl was in a mood only one degree removed from frenzy.  She leaned forward and shook his arm.  ‘Mr. Thomasson!’ she cried.  ’Mr. Thomasson!’

Apparently the name and the touch were more effectual.  He opened his eyes and sat up with a start of recognition, feigned or real.  On his temple just under the edge of his wig, which was awry, was a slight cut.  He felt it gingerly with his fingers, glanced at them, and finding them stained with blood, shuddered.  ‘I am afraid—­I am hurt,’ he muttered.

His languor and her excitement went ill together.  She doubted he was pretending, and had a hundred ill-defined, half-formed suspicions of him.  Was it possible that he—­he had dared to contrive this?  Or was he employed by others—­by another?  ‘Who hurt you?’ she cried sharply.  At least she was not afraid of him.

He pointed in the direction of the horses.  ‘They did,’ he said stupidly.  ’I saw it from the lane and ran to help you.  The man I seized struck me—­here.  Then, I suppose they feared I should raise the country on them.  And they forced me in—­I don’t well remember how.’

‘And that is all you know?’ she cried imperiously.

His look convinced her.  ‘Then help me now!’ she replied, rising impetuously to her feet, and steadying herself by setting one hand against the back of the carriage.  ’Shout!  Scream!  Threaten them!  Don’t you see that every yard we are carried puts us farther in their power?  Shout!—­do you hear?’