"So she told me this morning," he said.
"I thought you wouldn't mind my handing on an impression for what it was worth," I added with vague floundering.
"Oh, not at all. I shall go there just the same, though."
"You'll annoy her."
He shrugged his shoulders resignedly. "That's as may be. This is not the time for her to be running any unnecessary risks."
"You can hardly kidnap a grown woman—on horseback—in broad daylight—in a public park," I protested.
"The place is practically deserted at the hour she rides."
The following day the Seraph rode as usual. Sylvia entered the Park at her accustomed time; saw him, cut him, passed him. For a while they cantered in the same direction, separated by a hundred and fifty yards; then the Seraph gradually reduced the distance between their horses. His quick eyes had marked a group of men moving furtively through a clump of trees to the side of the road. Their character and intentions will never be known, for Sylvia abruptly drew rein—throwing her horse on his haunches as she did so—then she turned in her own length, and awaited her gratuitous escort. The Seraph had to swerve to avoid a cannon. As he passed, her hand flashed up and cut him across the face with a switch; an instinctive pull at the reins gave his horse a momentary check and enabled her to deal a second cut back-handed across his shoulders. Then both turned and faced each other.
Sylvia sat with white face and blazing eyes.
"It was a switch to-day, and it will be a crop to-morrow," she told him. "It seems you have to be taught that when I say a thing I mean it."