ll end this
night. Shallow fool that you have been, to match your puny intellect
against a goddess famed for her wiles as for her beauty! You have
thought me simple and guileless; you have never feared to treat me with
disrespect; you have even dared to suppose that you could keep me--an
immortal--pent within these wretched walls! I humoured you; I let you
fool yourself with the notion that your will was free--your soul your
own. Now that is over! Consider the perils which encircle you.
Everything has been aiding to drive you into these arms. My hour of
triumph is at hand--yield, then! Cast yourself at my feet, and grovel
for pardon--for mercy--or assuredly I will spare you not!"

Leander went down on all fours on the hearthrug. "Mercy!" he cried,
feebly. "I've meant no offence. Only tell me what you want of me."

[Illustration: LEANDER WENT DOWN ON ALL FOURS ON THE HEARTH-RUG.]

"Why should I tell you again? I demand the words from you which place
you within my power: speak them at once!"

("Ah," thought Leander, "I am not in her power as it is, then.") "If I
was to tell you once more that I couldn't undertake to say any such
words?" he asked aloud.

"Then," she said, "my patience would be at an end, and I would scatter
your vile frame to the four winds of heaven!"

"Lady Venus," said Leander, getting up with a white and desperate face,
"don't drive me into a corner. I can't go off, not at a moment's
notice--in either way! I--I must have a day--only a day--to make my
arrangements in. Give me a day, Lady Venus; I ask it as a partickler
favour!"

"Be it so," she said. "One day I give you in which to take leave of
such as may be dear to you; but, after that, I will listen to no further
pleadings. You are mine, and, all unworthy as you are, I shall hold you
to your pledge!"

Leander was left with this terrible warning ringing in his ears: the
goddess would hold him to his involuntary pledge. Even he could see that
it was pride, and not affection, which rendered her so determined; and
he trembled at the thought of placing himself irrevocably in her power.

But what was he to do? The alternative was too awful; and then, in
either case, he must lose Matilda. Here the recollection of how he had
left her came over him with a vivid force. What must she be thinking of
him at that moment? And who would ever tell her the truth, when he had
been spirited away for ever?

"Oh, Matilda!" he cried, "if you only knew the hidg