et pattered down
the lesser avenue, a hand was thrust from a shawl, and Patsy's voice
called "Jean--where are you, Jean?"

In an instant the girl was swept from her feet, enveloped in a great
travelling coat, and carried to a carriage that was in waiting close
against the hedge under the black shadow of the beech leaves. Patsy had
no time to cry out. She was too astonished. Besides, the large hand of
Eben the Spy was pressed against her mouth. She felt herself thrust
without ceremony into a carriage on the front seat of which sat two men,
dark shadows seen for a moment as the door opened, against the pour of
the sea-mist past the windows.

"I think," said a voice, "you had better let me manage her--for the
present, that is. She has just bitten me. Ah--quick with that Indian
shawl. Thank you, my Lord. We must keep her from crying out. Now, my
pretty, there you are with your ankles tied and your hands kept from
mischief, so we shall soon reconcile ourselves!"

Patsy strove vehemently, but the arm about her was strong. Her feet and
hands were fastened with soft swathes of silk, while about her mouth and
chin the Indian shawl proved an efficient gag.

She could hear the clatter of the horses' feet, and was conscious of the
rapid movement of the carriage. Once or twice the man on the front seat
leaned over and spoke soothingly to her, or so at least it seemed. But
he appeared to be sorely at a loss for words.

"You will be glad of all this to-morrow," she recognized the thick voice
of the man whom she had made hold her wool; "you shall be my little
black pearl!"

"Better let her come round of herself, your Highness," said the man who
held her. "They take it a bit hard at first, but after the anger and the
tears, then it will be time to argue with her."

The man addressed as "your Highness" dropped back into his seat, and for
a long time nothing was heard but the changeful clatter of the shod feet
of horses. Patsy sat muffled and helpless, conscious that she had been
trapped, but determined that since somebody had dared, somebody also
should die before a hand was laid upon her. She felt strangely at home.
Her Pictish blood spoke--perhaps still older bloods, too, within her. It
was somehow perfectly natural that a man should try to carry her off.
She was obscurely but surely aware that men of her race had done things
like that. But then, also, they did them at their peril. And Patsy the
Pict felt herself strong enough