The broad-shouldered partner was making hopeless efforts from the other side of the course.  “Don’t waste your breath!” cried the men.  “He’s got her now.”

The big fellow stopped, and waited calmly for the end.

But it was not over yet.  Olof was gaining steadily on the girl; turn which way she pleased, he would have her now.

She saw the danger, and turned to rush down the slope.  But, in turning, one of her shoes came loose, and was flung high in air.

A shout of delight went up from the playground in the rear.

The girl stopped, at a loss now what to do.  Olof, too, forgot the pursuit, and stood watching the shoe; then suddenly he sprang forward and caught it in the air as it fell.

A fresh burst of applause came from the lookers-on.  “Bravo, bravo, that’s the way!”

“Go on, go on!  Never mind about the shoe!” cried some of the girls, to urge her on.

She dashed off again, Olof after her with the shoe in his hand.

The chase was worth looking at now; no ordinary game this, but a contest, with victory or defeat at stake.  The spectators were wild with excitement, taking sides for one or other of the two.

The girl shot this way and that, like a shuttle in a loom, her slender body gracefully bent, her head thrown back defiantly.  Her plait had come loose, and the hair streamed out behind her like a tawny mane.  A glimpse of a red stocking showed now and again beneath her dress.

For Olof, too, it had ceased to be a game.  She was no longer one of a couple he had to part, but a creature fie must tame—­a young wild foal with sparkling eyes and golden mane.

They reached the edge of the course; only a few feet now between them.

At last! thought Olof, holding himself in readiness for her next turn up the slope.

But again she turned off downward.  And as she wheeled about, Olof again was aware of something he had not marked before—­the curve of her hips, her lithe, supple waist, and the splendid poise of her head.  He was so close now that her hair touched his face—­touched it, or was it only the air as it flew past his cheek?  And from her eyes shot beams of light, challenging, beckoning, urging him on.

Gazelle!  The word flashed into his mind—­a picture from some book he had once read.  The eyes, the lightfoot swiftness—­yes, a gazelle.  He shouted the word aloud, victoriously, as he raced after her like one possessed.

She sprang aside, and darted up a little hill just beyond the course.

“Look, look!” cried the rest.  It was like running down a hare.

A glimpse of a red stocking up on the crest of the mound, and the hunted creature vanished on the farther side, the hunter after her.

The final heat was but short.  The girl was wearying already, and had made for the shelter of the hill on purpose to avoid being caught in sight of the rest.  Olof tore madly down the slope.  The girl gave one glance round, turned vaguely with an instinct of defence; next moment she felt Olof’s two hands grasping her waist.