Cunningham was laid upon the ground and tied fast. He struggled with every ounce of his strength, but in vain. The Strange People were too many and too resolute. But they seemed to take pains not to injure him. Indeed, when they put him in a litter and started off with him, there seemed to be a consistent effort by the bearers not to make him even uncomfortable.
Cunningham raged and tore at his bonds. Then he subsided into a savage silence. His lips were set into a grim firmness. Maria sobbing upon the grass ... this abominable sympathy for him....
The litter stopped. They took him out and cut his bonds. They offered him the bags of hammered gold-pieces again.
“I don’t want them,” he said with grim politeness. “I warn you, I’m coming back.”
The leader of his escort was the young man who had first come out of the woods the first time Cunningham had seen the Strangers. He nodded gravely.
“I know,” he said quietly. “I loved a girl not of our people, last year.”
The litter-bearers had vanished into the woods. Cunningham matched at a straw of hope. Perhaps here was a friend, or even a source of help.
“You understand,” he said in a hurried, eager undertone. “Perhaps we can——”
“I gave her up,” said the young Stranger quietly. “My people would have killed her if I had married her. You see, I might have told her.”
He shrugged and pointed off through the woods.