"Good-bye," she said, with a catch in her voice, putting forth her hand; "I hope we shall always be friends."
Taking her hand, he raised it to his lips and kissed it, slowly, reverently, as one might kiss the hands of the beloved dead. No knight of old—not Sir Philip Sidney himself—could have done the thing more perfectly. Isabel was much moved. Two large tears rolled down from her eyes and splashed on his wrist.
Then, as she turned away, he suddenly seized her hand again with both of his own, and covered it with kisses, but this time they were wild, hungry, passionate.
Isabel broke from him and ran down the hill; but in the instant of her flight he saw in her face the things he had hoped and planned to see—not only pity and pain, but also very real fear of herself.
After this the days flew; with rehearsals for the entertainment, work on costumes and the like, every waking moment of Isabel's time was occupied; and, though Fult was on hand most of the time, helping in every possible way, he did not again make the least effort to see her alone, or refer in any way to their conversation on the hill.
It was the custom of Isabel, Annette, and the kindergarten teacher, every night after the rehearsals, to go down to the kitchen tent and get something to eat before retiring. Thursday night of the last week Isabel, coming out of the door as the three were about to leave after eating, had an impression of a head vanishing round the tent corner. The shadows of the trees were too dark, however, for her to be at all certain, and, putting it down to weariness and nerves, she dismissed the matter from her mind.
Then came the last busy Saturday; the entertainment was to be on the following Monday, and the women were to start out of the mountains on Tuesday. Amy and Virginia had ridden nearly thirty miles that day, visiting homes on a distant creek, and, coming in about dark, had gone immediately to their tent and to bed. Isabel shared this tent with them, but it was much later before she could get to bed: rehearsals, all sorts of last things, were to be attended to. At last it was over, and she, Annette, and the kindergartner, as was their custom, went down after the departing guests to the kitchen tent. They set the lantern on the kitchen table, and ate by its light. Then Isabel, being unusually tired, dropped down on the bench just outside the door to rest, while the other two put away the food and dishes.
She had hardly sat down when she felt something thrown and tightened over her mouth, and, attempting to cry out, realized that she was gagged and unable to utter a sound. The next instant she was lifted by a pair of strong arms and borne swiftly away. The next, Fult's voice spoke low in her ear: "Hit is me—don't take no fear." Then, as she fought and struggled desperately: "I wouldn't fight if I was you; hit will only mean I'll have to tie your hands and feet." When she struggled and fought all the more violently, he set her down, swiftly knotted a leather strap about her wrists, and, as she made a wild pass to run, stooped and fastened another around her ankles. "Hit's too bad," he said, calmly, "to have to tie you up this way; I hate to do it, but hit's the only way. I allowed you'd fight, and was ready for hit. Soon as them women go up the hill, we'll mount the nag and start for Hazard."
The whole thing had happened with great swiftness and in complete silence. The two other women were now going up the hill with the lantern; not thirty feet from them, Isabel heard Annette say, "She was so tired, she has gone on up ahead of us to bed," and was unable to move or make a sound.