So we traversed the alleys of the wood, now in shadow, now in moonlight, the Lady, the Daemon, and I, and always the perfume of hidden flowers seemed sweeter and stronger, the gleam of her hair and the sway of her body the more alluring, and always the voice at my ear whispered:  “Try her, you dog, try her.”

At last, being come to a broad, grassy glade, the lady paused, and, standing in the full radiance of the dying moon, looked up at me with a smile on her red lips.

“They can never find us now!” she said.

“No, they can never find us now,” I repeated, while the Daemon at my elbow chuckled again.

“And—­oh, sir!  I can never, never thank you,” she began.

“Don’t,” said I, not looking at her; “don’t thank me till—­we are out of the wood.”

“I think,” she went on slowly, “that you—­can guess from—­from what you saved me, and can understand something of my gratitude, for I can never express it all.”

“Indeed,” said I, “indeed you overestimate my service.”

“You risked your life for me, sir,” said she, her eyes glistening, “surely my thanks are due to you for that?  And I do thank you—­from my heart!” And with a swift, impulsive gesture, she stretched out her hands to me.  For a brief moment I hesitated, then seized them, and, drew her close.  But, even as I stooped above her, she repulsed me desperately; her loosened hair brushed my eyes and lips—­blinded, maddened me; my hat fell off, and all at once her struggles ceased.

“Sir Maurice Vibart!” she panted, and I saw a hopeless terror in her face.  But the Daemon’s jovial voice chuckled in my ear: 

“Ho, Peter Vibart, act up to your cousin’s reputation; who’s to know the difference?” My arms tightened about her, then I loosed her suddenly, and, turning, smote my clenched fist against a tree; which done, I stooped and picked up my hat and blackthorn staff.

“Madam,” said I, looking down upon my bleeding knuckles, “I am not Sir Maurice Vibart.  It seems my fate to be mistaken for him wherever I go.  My name is Peter, plain and unvarnished, and I am very humbly your servant.”  Now as I spoke, it seemed that the Daemon, no longer the jovial companion, was himself again, horns, hoof, and tail—­nay, indeed, he seemed a thousand times more foul and hideous than before, as he mouthed and jibed at me in baffled fury; wherefore, I smiled and turned my back upon him.

“Come,” said I, extending my hand to the trembling girl, “let us get out of these dismal woods.”  For a space she hesitated, looking up at me beneath her lashes, then reached out, and laid her fingers in mine; and, as we turned away, I knew that the Daemon had cast himself upon the ground, and was tearing at the grass in a paroxysm of rage and bafflement.

“It is strange,” said I, after we had gone some little distance, “very strange that you should only have discovered this resemblance here, and now, for surely you saw my face plainly enough at the inn.”