ys, with a low, sneering laugh, every vestige
of color gone from his face. "I shall do her no harm. I shan't murder
her, I give you my word. Be comforted, she will be quite as safe with me
as she would even be with--_you_." He laughs again, dismisses Roger from
his thoughts by an indescribable motion of his hand, and once more
concentrates his attention upon the girl near him, who, with lowered
eyes and a pale, distressed face, is waiting unwillingly for what he may
say next.

All this is so unusual, and really, every one is so full of wonder at
Stephen's extraordinary conduct, that up to this none of the spectators
have said one word. At this juncture, however, Sir Mark clears his
throat as if to say something, and, coming forward, would probably have
tried the effect of a conciliatory speech, but that Stephen, turning
abruptly away from them, takes Dulce's hand in his, and leads her in
silence and with a brow dark as Erebus, up the gravelled path, and past
the chilly fountain, and thus out of sight.

It is as though some terrible ogre from out of a fairy tale had
descended upon them and plucked their fairest damsel from their midst,
to incarcerate her in a 'donjon keep' and probably eat her by and by,
when she is considered fit to kill.

"Do--_do_ you think he has gone mad?" asked Julia, with clasped hands
and tearful eyes.

"My dear Mark, I think something ought to be done,--some one ought to go
after her," says Portia, nervously. "He really looked quite dreadful."

"I'll go," says Roger, angrily.

"No, you won't," says Sir Mark, catching hold of him. "Let them have it
out,--it is far the best thing. And if she gets a regular, right-down,
uncommonly good scolding, as I hope she will"--viciously,--"I can only
say she richly deserves it."

"I can only say I don't know whether I am standing on my head or on my
heels," says Mr. Browne, drawing a long breath; "I feel cheap. Any one
might have me now for little or nothing--quite a bargain."

"I don't think you'd be a bargain at any price," says Sir Mark; but this
touching tribute to his inestimable qualities is passed over by Mr.
Browne in a silence that is almost sublime.

"To think Stephen could look like that!" he goes on, as evenly as if Sir
Mark had never spoken. "Why, Irving is a fool to him. Tragedy is plainly
his _forte_. Really, one never knows of what these aesthetic-looking
people are capable. He looked murderous."

At this awful word the children--w