Neither
now, nor at any future time. You're _mine_! Do you understand what
that means? It means if you'd one day left to live, it would be _my_
day--one night, _mine_! And I swear to you if any man takes you from
me I'll kill him first and you after. _Now_ do you understand?"

She tried to speak, but her voice failed her. It was as though he had
pronounced sentence on her--a life sentence! She could never get away
from him--never, never! A shudder ran through her whole body. He felt
it, and it stung him to fresh anger. Her head was pressed into his
shoulder as though for shelter.

"Look up!" he demanded imperiously. "Don't hide your face. It's mine.
And I want to see it!"

Reluctantly, compelled by his voice, she lifted a white, tortured face
to his. Then, meeting his eyes, savagely alight with the fire of
conquest, she turned her head quickly aside. But it was useless. She
was powerless in the vice-like grip of his arms, and the next moment he
was kissing her, eyes and mouth and pulsing throat, with terrible,
burning kisses that seemed to sear their way through her whole body,
branding her indelibly his.

It was useless to struggle. She hung nervelessly in his straining
arms, mute and helpless to withstand him, while his passion swept over
her like a tidal wave, submerging her utterly.

When at last he set her free she swayed unsteadily, catching at the
table for support. Her knees seemed to be giving way under her. She
was voiceless, breathless from his violence. The tide had receded,
leaving her utterly spent and exhausted.

He regarded her in silence for a moment.

"I don't think you'll ask me to release you from your engagement
again," he said slowly.

"No," she whispered tonelessly. "No."

She tottered almost as though she were going to fall. With a sort of
rough kindliness he put out his hand to steady her, but she shrank from
him like a beaten child.

"Don't do that!" he exclaimed unevenly. Adding: "I've frightened you,
I suppose?"

She bent her head.

"Well"--sulkily--"it was your own fault. You roused the wild beast in
me." Then, with a queer, half-shamed laugh, he added: "There's Spanish
blood in the Trenbys, you know--as there is in many of the Cornish
folk."

Nan supposed this avowal was intended as an apology, or at least as an
explanation of sorts. It was rather appealing in its boyish
clumsiness, but she felt too numb, too utterly weary, to respond to it.

"Y