“Now bind her eyes, Sarah,” said the voice.  “I’ll secure her hands.  My pretty bird, it’s of no use struggling.  You’re safely and surely snared.”

Her eyes were bandaged, her hands bound, and Mollie sat utterly helpless and bewildered—­a prisoner.

She could neither see, nor move, nor speak.  The hack was rattling at a fearful pace over the stony streets.  Its noise would have drowned her cries had it been in her power to utter any.

“Now, my dear Miss Dane,” said that unknown voice, very close to her ear, and all at once, in French, “I’ll answer all the questions I know you are dying to ask at this moment, and answer them truthfully.  I speak in French, that the good Sarah beside us may not comprehend.  You understand the language, I know.”

He knew her, then!  And yet she utterly failed to recognize that voice.

“In the first place, what does all this mean?  Why this deception—­this abduction?  Who am I?  Where are you being taken?  When are you to be restored to your friends?  This is what you would ask, is it not?  Very well; now to answer you.  What does this mean?  Why, it means that you have made an enemy, by your atrocious flirting, of one whom you cruelly and shamefully jilted, who has vowed vengeance, and who knows how to keep that vow.  Why this deception—­this abduction?  Well, without deception it was impossible to get you away, and we know just enough about you to serve our purpose.  Miriam never sent that note; but Miriam exists.  Who am I?  Why, I am that enemy—­if one can be your enemy who loves you to madness—­a man you cruelly taught to love you, and then scornfully refused.  Where are you being taken?  To a safe place, my charming Mollie—­safe as ‘that deepest dungeon beneath the castle moat’ which you have read of.  When are you to be restored to your friends?  When you have been my wife one week—­not an instant sooner.”

Mollie, bound and blindfolded, made one frantic gesture.  The man by her side understood.

“That means you won’t,” he said, coolly.  “Ah, my fairy Mollie, imprisonment is a hard thing to bear!  I love you very dearly, I admire your high spirit intensely; but even eaglets have had their wings clipped before now.  You treated me mercilessly—­I am going to be merciless in my turn.  You don’t care for this old man I have saved you from marrying.  I am young and good-looking—­I blush as I say it—­a far more suitable husband for you than he.  You are trying to recognize my voice and place me, I know.  Leave off trying, my dearest; you never will.  I am perfectly disguised—­voice, face, figure.  When we part you will be no wiser than you are now.”

He ceased speaking.  The carriage rattled on and on through the shining, starlit night for endless hours, it seemed to Mollie.

Oh, where were they going, and what was to become of her?  Was it a frightful reality, or only a dream?  Was she really the same girl who this night was to have been the bride of a baronet?  Was this the nineteenth century and New York City, or a chapter out of some old Venetian romance?