n serious jeopardy, when
I slid down the face of the sand hill, which is there precipitous, and,
running halfway forward, called to her to stop.

She did so, and turned round. There was not a tremor of fear in her
behavior, and she marched directly up to me like a queen. I was barefoot,
and clad like a common sailor, save for an Egyptian scarf round my waist;
and she probably took me at first for some one from the fisher village,
straying after bait. As for her, when I thus saw her face to face, her
eyes set steadily and imperiously upon mine, I was filled with admiration
and astonishment, and thought her even more beautiful than I had looked to
find her. Nor could I think enough of one who, acting with so much
boldness, yet preserved a maidenly air that was both quaint and engaging;
for my wife kept an old-fashioned precision of manner through all her
admirable life--an excellent thing in woman, since it sets another value
on her sweet familiarities.

"What does this mean?" she asked.

"You were walking," I told her, "directly into Graden Floe."

"You do not belong to these parts," she said again. "You speak like an
educated man."

"I believe I have a right to that name," said I, "although in this
disguise."

But her woman's eye had already detected the sash.

"Oh!" she said; "your sash betrays you."

"You have said the word _betray_," I resumed. "May I ask you not to betray
me? I was obliged to disclose myself in your interest; but if Northmour
learned my presence it might be worse than disagreeable for me."

"Do you know," she asked, "to whom you are speaking?"

"Not to Mr. Northmour's wife?" I asked, by way of answer.

She shook her head. All this while she was studying my face with an
embarrassing intentness. Then she broke out--

"You have an honest face. Be honest like your face, sir, and tell me what
you want and what you are afraid of. Do you think I could hurt you? I
believe you have far more power to injure me! And yet you do not look
unkind. What do you mean--you, a gentleman--by skulking like a spy about
this desolate place? Tell me," she said, "who is it you hate?"

"I hate no one," I answered; "and I fear no one face to face. My name is
Cassilis--Frank Cassilis. I lead the life of a vagabond for my own good
pleasure. I am one of Northmour's oldest friends; and three nights ago,
when I addressed him on these links, he stabbed me in the shoulder with a
knife."

"It was you!" she said.

"W