It was breathless work; again and again, before she could prevent it, he forced his assistance on her; and in the abrupt, almost rough contact there was something that began at last to terrify her—­weaken her—­so that, at the top of the slope, she caught breathless at a tree and leaned against the trunk for a moment, closing her eyes.

“You poor little girl,” he breathed close to her ear; and as her startled eyes flew open, he drew her into his arms.

For a second his congested face and prominent, pale eyes swam before her; then with a convulsive gasp she wrenched herself partly free and strained away from his grasp, panting.

“Let me go, Mr. Cardemon!”

“Look here, Valerie, you know I’m crazy about you—­”

“Will you let me go?”

“Oh, come, little girl, I know who you are, all right!  Be a good little sport and—­”

“Let me go,” she whispered between her teeth.  Then his red, perspiring features—­the prominent eyes and loose mouth drew nearer—­nearer—­and she struck blindly at the face with her dog-whip—­twice with the lash and once with the stag-horn handle.  And the next instant she was running.

He caught her at the foot of the slope; she saw blood on his cheek and puffy welts striping his distorted features, strove to strike him again, but felt her arm powerless in his grasp.

“Are you mad!” she gasped.

“Mad about you!  For God’s sake listen to me, Valerie!  Batter me, tear me to pieces—­and I won’t care, if you’ll listen to me a moment—­”

She struggled silently, fiercely, to use her whip, to wrench herself free.

“I tell you I love you!” he said; “I’d go through hell for you.  You’ve got to listen—­you’ve got to know—­”

“You coward!” she sobbed.

“I don’t care what you say to me if you’ll listen a moment—­”

“As Rita Tevis listened to you!” she said, white to the lips—­“you murderer of souls!” And, as his grasp relaxed for a second, she tore her arm free, sprang forward and slashed him across the mouth with the lash.

Behind her she heard his sharp cry of pain, heard him staggering about in the underbrush.  Terror winged her feet and she fairly flew along the open ridge and down through the dead leaves across a soft, green, marshy hollow, hearing him somewhere in the woods behind her, coming on at a heavy run.

For a long time she ran; and suddenly collapsed, falling in a huddled desperate heap, her slender hands catching at her throat.

At the foot of the hill she saw him striding hither and thither, examining the soft forest soil or halting to listen—­then as though scourged into action, running aimlessly toward where she lay, casting about on every side like a burly dog at fault.

Once, when he stood not very far away, and she had hidden her face in her arms, trembling like a doomed thing—­she heard him call to her—­heard the cry burst from him as though in agony: