,
struggling. The breath was on his cheeks. He felt it distinctly--the
rustle of something alive.

Velasco clenched his teeth together, clutching the thing, and held it
under the window-pane, close, close, straining forward. As he did so
the rays of a street lamp fell through the glass, a faint, pale light
through the steam on the panes; a flash and it was over. Velasco gave
a cry.

Beside him was a woman, slight and veiled, and she was crouching away
from him, holding her hands before her face, panting, frightened, even
as he was.

"Who are you?" cried Velasco, "What are you? Speak, for the love of
heaven! I feel as if I were going mad. Speak!"

He shook the cloak in his trembling grasp and, as he did so, a hand
pressed into his own. It was bare, and soft like the leaf of a rose.
He grasped it. The fingers clung to him, alive and warm. Velasco
hesitated. Then he dropped the hand and from his pocket he snatched a
match, striking it against the side of the carriage. It sputtered and
went out. He struck another. It flickered for a moment and he held it
between his hands, coaxing it. It burned and he held it out, gazing
into the corner, coming nearer and nearer. The eyes gleamed at him
from behind the veil; nearer--He could see the oval of the face, the
lips. Then the match went out.

"Kaya--Kaya!"

He snatched at her hand again in the darkness and held it under the
fur. "You came after all," he whispered hoarsely, "I thought I had
dreamed it. Speak to me; let me hear your voice."

He felt her bending towards him; her shoulder touched his. "You
promised--I hold you to your promise."

"Yes; yes!"

"Have you changed your mind?"

"No.--Don't take your hand away. No! It is horrible, the storm and
the blackness. Hear the wind shriek! The hoofs of the horses are
padded with snow; they are galloping. How the carriage lurches and
sways! Are you afraid, Kaya? Don't--don't take your hand away."

Velasco's voice was husky and forced like a string out of tune. It was
strange, extraordinary to be sitting there in that dark, black cave,
his hand clasping the hand of a woman, a stranger. The two sat silent.
The horses plunged forward.

Suddenly they stopped. Velasco started as out of a dream and sprang to
the window, wiping the steam from the panes with his sleeve.

"Bobo!" he cried, "Madman! This is not the Station. Where are you
going, idiot--fool!"

His voice was smothered suddenly b