“Yes; it is very beautiful,” she answered.  “Why did you disturb me when I was so happy?” But the count was still recovering his breath and made no answer to this question.  When, however, she attempted to move on again, still breasting the hill, he put his hand upon her arm very gently.

“Lady Ongar,” he said, “you must listen to me for a moment.  Why not do it without a quarrel?”

“If you mean that I cannot escape from you, it is true enough.”

“Why should you want to escape?  Did I ever hurt you?  Before this have I not protected you from injury?”

“No—­never.  You protect me!”

“Yes—­I; from your husband, from yourself, and from the world.  You do not know—­not yet, all that I have done for you.  Did you read what Lord Ongar had said?”

“I read what it pleased you to write.”

“What it pleased me!  Do you pretend to think that Lord Ongar did not speak as he speaks there?  Do you not know that those were his own words?  Do you not recognize them?  Ah, yes, Lady Ongar; you know them to be true.”

“Their truth or falsehood is nothing to me.  They are altogether indifferent to me either way.”

“That would be very well if it were possible; but it is not.  There; now we are at the top, and it will be easier.  Will you let me have the honor to offer you my arm?  No!  Be it so; but I think you would walk the easier.  It would not be for the first time.”

“That is a falsehood.”  As she spoke she stepped before him, and looked into his face with eyes full of passion.  “That is a positive falsehood.  I never walked with a hand resting on your arm.”

There came over his face the pleasantest smile as he answered her.  “You forget everything,” he said—­“everything.  But it does not matter.  Other people will not forget.  Julie, you had better take me for your husband.  You will be better as my wife, and happier, than you can be otherwise.”

“Look down there, Count Pateroff—­down to the edge.  If my misery is too great to be borne, I can escape from it there on better terms than you propose to me.”

“Ah!  That is what we call poetry.  Poetry is very pretty, and in saying this as you do, you make yourself divine.  But to be dashed over the cliffs and broken on the rocks—­in prose is not so well.”

“Sir, will you allow me to pass on while you remain; or will you let me rest here, while you return alone?”

“No, Julie; not so.  I have found you with too much difficulty.  In London, you see, I could not find you.  Here, for a minute, you must listen to me.  Do you not know, Julie, that your character is in my hands?”

“In your hands?  No—­never; thank God, never.  But what if it were?”

“Only this—­that I am forced to play the only game that you leave open to me.  Chance brought you and me together in such a way that nothing but marriage can be beneficial to either of us—­and I swore to Lord Ongar that it should be so.  I mean that it shall be so—­or that you shall be punished for your misconduct to him and to me.”