Marpasse saw Denise climb the bank, and disappear into the darkness, and in a moment Marpasse was after her, knowing more than Denise knew of a camping ground at night. She still had view of the grey cloak, and Denise fled like a blind thing, and like a blind thing she was soon in trouble. She had run towards the place where the night seemed blackest, but the passion of her flight carried her into nothing more sympathetic than an old thorn hedge. It was here that Marpasse came up with her, while she was tearing her cloak free from the clinging thorns and brambles.
She caught Denise and held her.
“Fool, where are you running?”
“Let me go, Marpasse.”
Denise’s voice was fierce and eager, the eager fierceness of a grown woman, not the petulance of a child. She struggled with Marpasse, but the woman kept her hold.
“Let me go, take your hands away!”
Marpasse found Denise stronger than she had thought.
“Fool, I am holding you for your own good. Strike me on the mouth, I am used to it. I know what a camping ground is like at night. Some great, fat spider will have you in a twinkling.”
Denise struggled for breath.
“I must go, Marpasse, take your hands away.”