But Geoffrey's eyes could not tear themselves from Helena. He saw her bathed in light, from top to toe, now gold, now scarlet, a fire-goddess, inimitably beautiful. They danced hand in hand, intoxicated by the music, and by the movement of their young swaying bodies. He felt Helena unconsciously leaning on him, her soft breath on his cheek. Her eyes were his now, and her smiling lips, just parted over her white teeth, tempted him beyond his powers of resistance.
"Come!" he whispered to her, and with a quick turn of the hand he had swung her out of the fiery circle, and drawn her towards the surrounding dark. A few steps and they were on the mountainside again, while behind them the top was still aflame, and black forms still danced round the drooping fire.
But they were safely curtained by night and the rising storm. After the first stage of the descent, suddenly he flung his arms round her, his mouth found hers, and all Helena's youth rushed at last to meet him as he gathered her to his breast.
"Geoffrey—my Tyrant!—let me go!" she panted.
"Are you mine—are you mine, at last?—you wild thing!"
"I suppose so—" she said, demurely. "Only, let me breathe!"
She escaped, and he heard her say with low sweet laughter as though to herself:
"I seem at any rate to be following my guardian's advice!"
"What advice? Tell me! you darling, tell me everything. I have a right now to all your secrets."
"Some day—perhaps."