"What is there to talk about to-night? Hark!" They could feel, rather than hear, the first warnings of the coming downpour, so hand in hand they walked up the gravelly beach and into the fringe of the forest where glowed the dull illumination from lamplit canvas walls. When they paused before the Countess' tent Pierce once more enfolded her in his arms and sheltered her from the boisterous breath of the night. His emotions were in a similar tumult, but as yet he could not voice them, he could merely stammer:
"You have never told me your name."
"Hilda."
"May I—call you that?"
She nodded. "Yes—when we are alone. Hilda Halberg, that was my name."
"Hilda! Hilda—Phillips." Pierce tried the sound curiously. The Countess drew back abruptly, with a shiver; then, in answer to his quick concern, said:
"I—I think I'm cold."
He undertook to clasp her closer, but she held him off, murmuring:
"Let it be Hilda Halberg for to-night. Let's not think of—Let's not think at all. Hilda—bride of the storm. There's a tempest in my blood, and who can think with a tempest raging?"
She raised her face and kissed him upon the lips, then, disengaging herself once more from his hungry arms, she stepped inside her shelter. The last he saw of her was her luminous smile framed against the black background; then she let the tent-fly fall.