She sank down on a log beside Dolly, and hid her face in her hands, beginning to cry.  Most men, no matter how bad, would have been moved to pity by the sight of her sufferings.  But John was not.

“Don’t cry,” he said, with mock sympathy.  “I am not going to treat you badly.  You shall stay in the woods with me.  I have a good hiding place, a place where your friends will never find you until I am ready.  You are tired.  So am I. We will rest here.  It is quite safe.  A party of your friends passed this way five minutes ago.  They will not come again—­not soon.  I was within a few feet of them, but they did not see me.”

Bessie groaned at the news.  Had they only reached the place five minutes earlier, then, they would have been safe.  She was struck by an idea, however, and lifted her voice in a shout for aid.  In a moment the gypsy’s hand covered her mouth and he was snarling in her ear.

“None of that,” he said, grittingly, “or I will find a way to make you keep still.  You must do as I tell you now, or it will be the worse for you.  Will you promise to keep quiet?”

Bessie realized that there was no telling what this man would do if she did not promise—­and keep her promise.  He was cleverer than Peter, and, therefore, much more dangerous.  She felt, somehow, that the trick which had worked so well when Dolly had used it before would be of no avail now.  He might even understand it; he was most unlikely, she was sure, to yield to superstitious terror as Peter and Lolla had done.  And, leaning over to Dolly, she whispered to her.

“Don’t try that trick, Dolly.  You see, if the others had dared the voice to do something they would have found out that there was really nothing to be afraid of—­and I’m afraid he’d wait.  It may be useful again, but not with him, now.  If we tried it, and it didn’t work—­”

“I understand,” Dolly whispered back.  “I think you are right, too, Bessie.  We’d be worse off than ever.  I was thinking that if only some of the other gypsies were here we might frighten them so much with it that they’d make him let us go.”

“Yes.  We’ll save it for that.”

The gypsy was still breathing hard.  He looked at the two girls malignantly, but he saw that they were too tired to walk much unless he let them rest, and, purely out of policy, and not at all because he was sorry for them, and for the hardships he had made them endure, he let them sit still for a while.  But finally he rose.

“Come,” he said.  “You’ve been loafing here long enough.  Get up now, and walk in front of me—­back, the way you came.”

They groaned at the prospect of retracing their footsteps once more, but he held the upper hand, and there was nothing for it but obedience.  That much was plain.  Desperately, as they began to drag their tired feet once more along the trail, they listened, hoping against hope for the sounds that would indicate that some of the searchers they were sure filled the woods were in the neighborhood.