Victor Lamont's voice died away in a hoarse whisper; the hand which caught and held her own closed tighter over it, and the hoarse murmur of the sea seemed further and further away.
Sally Gardiner seemed only conscious of one thing—that Victor Lamont loved her.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
For a moment the words falling so passionately from the lips of the handsome man sitting beside her, the spell of the moonlight, and the murmur of the waves, seemed to lock her senses in a delicious dream. But the dream lasted only a moment. In the next, she had recovered herself.
"Oh, Mr. Lamont, we must—we must get right out and walk back to the hotel! What if any one should see us riding together? Jay would be sure to hear of it, and there would be trouble in store for both of us."
"It is all in a life-time," he murmured. "Can you not be happy here with me——"
But she broke away from his detaining hand in alarm. She had been guilty of an imprudent flirtation; but she had meant nothing more. She had drifted into this delusive friendship and companionship without so much as bothering her pretty golden head about how it would end. Now she was just beginning to see how foolish she had been—when this handsome stranger could be nothing to her—nothing.
"We must not ride any further," she declared. "Give orders for the coach to stop right here, Mr. Lamont."
"It is too late, dear lady," he gasped. "The horses are running away! For God's sake, don't attempt to scream or to jump, or you will be killed!"
With a wild sob of terror, Sally flung herself down on her knees, and the lips that had never yet said, "God be praised," cried "God be merciful!"