But she only stood and stared at him, holding her whip behind her, knowing that at any moment he might snatch it from her hand.  And she knew how poor a weapon it was.  To strike out with it would only infuriate him and make him a wild beast.  And it was becoming an agony to stand upon her foot.  And even if it had not been so—­if she had been strong enough to make a leap and dash past him, her horse stood outside disabled.

Nigel Anstruthers’ eyes ran over her from head to foot, down the side of her mud-stained habit, while a curious light dawned in them.

“You have had a fall from your horse,” he exclaimed.  “You are lame!” Then quickly, “That was why Childe Harold was trembling and standing on three feet!  By Jove!”

Then he sat down on the nail keg and began to laugh.  He laughed for a full minute, but she saw he did not take his eyes from her.

“You are in as unpleasant a situation as a young woman can well be,” he said, when he stopped.  “You came to a dirty hole to be alone with a man who felt it safest not to keep his appointment.  Your horse stumbled and disabled himself and you.  You are twenty miles from home in a deserted cottage in a lane no one passes down even in good weather.  You are frightened to death and you have given me even a better story to play with than your sister gave me.  By Jove!”

His face was an unholy thing to look upon.  The situation and her powerlessness were exciting him.

“No,” she answered, keeping her eyes on his, as she might have kept them on some wild animal’s, “I am not frightened to death.”

His ugly dark flush rose.

“Well, if you are not,” he said, “don’t tell me so.  That kind of defiance is not your best line just now.  You have been disdaining me from magnificent New York heights for some time.  Do you think that I am not enjoying this?”

“I cannot imagine anyone else who would enjoy it so much.”  And she knew the answer was daring, but would have made it if he had held a knife’s point at her throat.

He got up, and walking to the door drew it back on its crazy hinges and managed to shut it close.  There was a big wooden bolt inside and he forced it into its socket.

“Presently I shall go and put the horses into the cowshed,” he said.  “If I leave them standing outside they will attract attention.  I do not intend to be disturbed by any gipsy tramp who wants shelter.  I have never had you quite to myself before.”

He sat down again and nursed his knee gracefully.

“And I have never seen you look as attractive,” biting his under lip in cynical enjoyment.  “To-day’s adventure has roused your emotions and actually beautified you—­which was not necessary.  I daresay you have been furious and have cried.  Your eyes do not look like mere eyes, but like splendid blue pools of tears.  Perhaps I shall make you cry sometime, my dear Betty.”

“No, you will not.”