And so she bore the fierce flame of his passion unflinching even though her spirit clamoured wildly to be free, choosing rather to be consumed by it than left a beaten slave in her house of bondage.

His kisses waked in her much more of fear than rapture.  That untamed desire of his frightened her to the very depths of her being, but yet it was infinitely preferable to the haughty indifference with which he regarded all the rest of the world.  It meant that he would not let her go, and that in itself was comfort unspeakable to Dinah.  He meant to have her at any price, and she was very badly in need of deliverance, even though she might have to pay for it, and pay heavily.

It was at this point, actually while his fiery kisses were scorching her lips, that a very strange thought crept all unawares into her consciousness.  If she ever needed help, if she ever needed escape, she had a friend to whom she could turn—­a staunch and capable friend who would never fail her.  She was sure that Scott would find a way to ease the burden if it became too heavy.  Her faith in him, his wisdom, his strength, was unbounded.  And he helped everyone—­the valiant servant Greatheart, protector of the helpless, sustainer of the vanquished.

When her lover was gone at last, she closed the door and leaned against it, feeling weak in every fibre.

Bathurst, coming out a few moments later, was struck by her spent look.  “Well, Dinah lass,” he said lightly, “you look as if it had cost something of an effort to land your catch.  But he’s a mighty fine one, I will say that for him.”

She went to him, twining her arm in his, forcing herself to smile.  “Oh, Dad,” she said, “he is fine, isn’t he?” But—­but—­she uttered the words almost in spite of herself—­“you should see his brother.  You should see—­Scott.”

“What?  Is he finer still?” laughed Bathurst, pinching her cheek.  “Have you got the whole family at your feet, you little baggage?”

She flushed very deeply.  “Oh no!  Oh no!  I didn’t mean that.  Scott—­Scott is not a bit like that.  He is—­he is—­” And there she broke off, for who could hope to convey any faithful impression of this good friend of hers?  There were no words that could adequately describe him.  With a little sigh she turned from the subject.  “I’m glad you like Eustace,” she said shyly.

Bathurst laughed a little, then bent unexpectedly, and kissed her.  “It’s a case of Cinderella and the prince,” he said lightly.  “But the luck isn’t all on Cinderella’s side, I’m thinking.”

She clung to him eagerly.  “Oh, Daddy, thank you!  Thank you!  Do you know—­it’s funny—­Scott used to call me Cinderella!”

Bathurst crooked his brows quizzically.  “How original of him!  This Scott seems to be quite a wonderful person.  And what was your pet name for him I wonder, eh, sly-boots?”

She laughed in evident embarrassment.  There was something implied in her father’s tone that made her curiously reluctant to discuss her hero.  And yet, in justification of the man himself, she felt she must say something.