Sonia Turgeinov laughed maliciously. "Go," she said, "or"—almost fiercely—"I may change my mind."
They went; Sonia Turgeinov turned and looked out over the open space.
The approaching figures were now much nearer.
CHAPTER XXIII
STARLIGHT
Dusk had begun to fall, but still two figures went on through the forest—slowly, with obvious effort. One turned often to the other, held back a branch, or proffered such service as he might over rough places, for Betty Dalrymple's movements were no longer those of a lithe wood-nymph; she had never felt so weary before. The first shades of twilight made it harder to distinguish their way amid intervening objects, and once an elastic bit of underbrush struck her sharply in the face. The blow smarted like the touch of a whip but she only smiled faintly. The momentary sting spurred her on faster, until her foot caught and she stumbled and would have fallen except that Mr. Heatherbloom had turned at that moment and put out an arm.
"Forgive me." His voice was full of contrition. "It has been brutal to make you go on like this, but I had to."
"It doesn't matter." The slender form slid from him over-quickly. "You, too, must be very tired," she said with breath coming fast.
He glanced swiftly back; listened. "We'll rest here," he commanded. "We've got to. I should have stopped before, but"—the words came in a harsher staccato—"I dared not."
"I'll be all right in a few moments," she answered, resting on a fallen log, "and then—"
"No, no," he said in a tone of finality. "After all, there is small likelihood they'll find us now. Besides, it will soon be too dark to go on. Fortunately, the night is warm, and I've got this cloak for you."