Again Christie thought of her vision, and trembling, terrified, fainting, she clung to a rock for support, unable to speak. With all the fiery, long-slumbering passion of her lion-heart aroused, the fierce, dark girl before her looked desperate enough for anything.
"Promise!" she said, in a hollow voice, coming nearer, and raising her arm threateningly.
"I cannot! Oh, Miss Sibyl, I cannot!" faltered the almost fainting Christie.
"Promise!" again cried Sibyl, glaring upon her with her wild, dark eyes.
"I cannot!" still wailed Christie, pressing her hand over her heart.
"Promise, or die!" exclaimed the mad girl, grasping her by the arm in a vise-like grip.
"I cannot—I would sooner die!" said Christie, as, unable to stand, she again sank at the feet of her vindictive foe.
For a moment it seemed as though the threat would be accomplished, as Sibyl stood over her like one turned to stone. But the next instant releasing her hold, she hurled her from her; and, as if fleeing from temptation, fled down the rocks, over the rough path toward the lodge, and sank fainting and exhausted on the sitting-room floor.
An hour later Aunt Moll entered, and beholding Sibyl, with her streaming hair, lying prone on the floor, grew alarmed, and coming over, she shook her gently, saying:
"Miss Sibyl, is yer sick? Come, git up now, like a good chile, 'fore you catch your def o' cold, a lyin' on de bare floor. 'Deed, honey, 'taint right for young people to heave derselves into de draft, dis way."