The devils that lie in wait for our weak moments prompted her then.  The bitterness faded from her lips and they curved in a smile that subtly challenged the stern decision in Dan Storran’s face.  She hesitated an instant.  Then, with feet that scarcely seemed to brush the grass, she glided forward, swaying, bending to some rhythmic measure, floating spirit-like across the lawn.

With a great cry Dan leaped to his feet and stared at her, transfixed.  At the sound of his voice she paused, poised on one bare foot, leaning a little towards him with curving, outstretched arms.  Then, before he could touch her, she drew away, step by step, and Dan Storran, standing there in tense, breathless silence, beheld what no one else had ever seen—­the Wielitzska dancing in the moonlight as she alone could dance.

He knew nothing of art, nor of the supreme technique which went to make each supple movement a thing of sheer perfection, instinct with rhythm and significance.  But he was a man, and a man in love, fighting the strongest instincts of his nature; and the bewildering beauty of her as she danced, the languorous, ethereal allure, delicately sensuous as the fragrance of a La France rose, sent the hot blood rioting through his veins. . . .  She was going—­slowly retreating from him.  The primal man in him, the innate hunter who took his mate by capture, swept him headlong.  With a bound he sprang past the dusky shrubbery that hedged the lawn and overtook her, catching her in his arms.  She did not struggle.  He felt her yield, and strained the soft, panting body closer to him.  Beneath his hand he could feel the hurrying beat of her heart.  Her breath, quickened by the exertion of the dance, came unevenly between her lips as she smiled at him.

“Do you still want me to go away, Dan Storran?”

There was a note of half-amused, half-triumphant mockery in her voice.  The last bonds that held him snapped suddenly:  “Yes!” he cried hoarsely.  “Yes, I do.  To go away with me!”

He crushed his mouth down on hers, draining the sweetness of her in burning kisses he had thwarted through all these weeks that they had been together, pouring out his love in disjointed, stumbling phrases which halted by very reason of the force of passion which evoked them.

Frightened by the tempest of emotion she had aroused she strained away from him.  But she was powerless against his huge strength, helpless to resist him.

At length the fierce tensity of his grip relaxed, though his arms still clasped her.

“Tell me,” he commanded triumphantly.  “Tell me you love me.  I want to hear it!” His voice vibrated and his eyes sought her face hungrily.

She summoned up all her forces to deny him—­to deny him in such a manner that he should realise his mistake absolutely and at once.  “But I don’t!  I don’t love you!  If you thought that, you misunderstood me.”

His hands released their hold of her and fell heavily to his sides.  “Misunderstood?” he muttered.  The glad triumph went suddenly out of his voice.  “Misunderstood?” he repeated dully.