led so vigorously that he was obliged to change his hold; but
where she was she had to remain. With tears in her voice she said: "I
allow no one to decide for me." Then he answered: "You may struggle your
hardest, but I will carry you home. And if you do not obey me, I shall
have you placed under restraint."

The words acted like a fetter of iron. She became motionless.

"You will place me under restraint?"

"I shall, for you have lost control over yourself."

Never since she could hear at all had she heard anything so silly as
this. But she would not discuss the matter with him. She merely said:
"And do you imagine this will be of any use?"

"I think so. When you see that we are doing everything in our power for
you, you will give in to us, because you are good."

After a short silence she said: "I cannot accept help from any one who
has not entire respect for me--" and she began to cry.

Then Frans Roey stood still and peered under her hood. "You don't imagine
that _I_ have not entire respect for you? Do you suppose that I would be
carrying you now if I had not? To me you are all that is noblest and
most beautiful. That is why I am carrying you. You may have done Heaven
knows what wrong deed--_I_ know that if you did it, it was from the
noblest of motives. You can't act otherwise! If you have been deceived,
if you have made a terrible mistake--why, I love you all the
better!--for then you are unhappy--that I know. And perhaps now it may
be possible for me, too, to help you. No greater happiness could befall
me. I will leave you, if you insist upon it. I will marry you, if you
can trust yourself to me. I will kill the fellow, if _that_ is your
wish. I will do anything whatever for you, if you will only be
happy--for that is my chief desire."

He stopped short, but began again.

"When I set off after you this evening, I was in greater misery than I
had ever imagined possible. She is going to throw herself into the sea,
I thought. Of course I shall go after her. In this storm it means death
to us both; but there is no help for that. Nor was that what distressed
me. No, it was your unhappiness, your despair--the idea that you could
believe yourself unworthy to live--you who could not act unworthily to
gain life's highest prize! Never, never have I known a human being for
whom I could answer as confidently. And I could not tell you this; I
could not help you. I knew you; I dared not come near you. But I have
been