“We are both mountaineers, you and I, and we don’t want any of our people to be carried off to jail. Isn’t that so? Now let this gentleman ride away, and I shall stay here until I have quite assured you that you are mistaken about him.”
She signaled Chauvenet to mount, holding the mystified and reluctant mountaineer with her eyes. Her heart was thumping fast and her hand shook a little as she tightened her grasp on the rein. She addressed Chauvenet in English as a mark of good faith to their captor.
“Ride on, Monsieur; do not wait for me.”
“But it is growing dark—I can not leave you alone, Mademoiselle. You have rendered me a great service, when it is I who should have extricated you—”
“Pray do not mention it! It is a mere chance that I am able to help. I shall be perfectly safe with this gentleman.”
The mountaineer took off his hat.
“Thank ye, Miss,” he said; and then to Chauvenet: “Get out!”
“Don’t trouble about me in the least, Monsieur Chauvenet,” and Shirley affirmed the last word with a nod as Chauvenet jumped into his saddle and rode off. When the swift gallop of his horse had carried him out of sight and sound down the road, Shirley faced the mountaineer.
“What is your name?”
“Tom Selfridge.”