But five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes passed, and he did not come back. Terror dried her tears, and her heart almost stopped beating. She had quite given him up for lost, and herself too, when with inexpressible relief she heard him call to her. She replied, and in a moment more he was at her side, breathless with running.
“I lost my bearings,” he said. “If you had not answered me, I could not have found you.”
“Don't leave me again,” she sobbed, clinging to his arm.
He put his arms round her and kissed her. It was mean, base, contemptible, to take advantage of her agitation in that way, but she did not resist, and he did it again and again,—I forbear to say how many times.
“Is n't it a perfectly beautiful night?” he exclaimed, with a fine gush of enthusiasm.
“Is n't it exquisite?” she echoed, with a rush of sympathetic feeling.
“See those stars: they look as if they had just been polished,” he cried.
“What a droll idea!” she exclaimed gleefully. “But do see that lovely mountain.”
Holding her with a firmer clasp, and speaking with what might be styled a fierce tenderness, he demanded, “What did you mean, miss, by refusing me this afternoon?”
“What did you go at me so stupidly for? I had to refuse,” she retorted smilingly.