“Shall I come to you, or will you to me!—through the tamarisks?”
“As you will, Captain Coppinger.”
“Come, then—up on to the hedge and jump—I will catch you in my arms. I have held you there ere this.”
“Yes, you have taken me up, now must I throw——” She did not finish the sentence; she meant, must she voluntarily throw herself into his arms?
She caught hold of the bushes and raised herself to the top of the hedge.
“By Heaven!” said he. “The tamarisk flowers have more color in them than your face.”
She stood on the summit of the bank, the tamarisks rising to her knees, waving in the wind about her. Must she resign herself to that man of whom she knew so little, whom she feared so greatly? There was no help for it. She must. He held out his arms. She sprang, and he caught her.
“I have you now,” he said, with a laugh of triumph. “You have come to me, and I will never give you up.”