Frans Roey thought of doing what he threatened. He
had spoken in jest. But when he saw her run, and with a speed for which
he would have given neither her nor any other woman credit, his
soldier's blood took it as a challenge. Alice saw this and said
hurriedly: "Don't do it." The words flung themselves in his way so
insistently that he stood doubtful. But Mary yonder on the road in the
white dress with the red hair above it, running with a step so swift and
light that the very rhythm of it allured him, nay, bereft him of his
senses ... he was off before he knew what he was about, just as Alice
called for the second time, in an agonised tone: "Don't do it!"

The strip of light above the dust of the road in front of him shone into
his eyes and his imagination like the sun. It blinded him. He ran
without consciousness of what he was doing. He ran as if: "Catch me!
Catch me!" were being shouted in front the whole time. He ran as if the
winning of life's highest prize depended on his reaching Mary.

She had a long start of him. Precisely this incited to the uttermost
exertion of all his powers. A race for happiness with one who desired to
be beaten! Blood at the boiling point surged in his ears; desire burned
in it. The longings of all these days and nights were tumultuously
urging him on to victory. Speak they would at last. No, speech would be
uncalled for; he would have her in his arms.

Now Mary turned her head--saw him, gave a cry, gathered up her dress.
She actually owned a still swifter pace, did she! Madness seized Frans.
He believed that the cry was a lure. He saw Mary make a forward sign
with her hand; he believed that she was showing where she would stop and
consider herself safe. He must reach her before she got there. He, too,
had a last spurt in reserve; it brought him with a rush close in upon
her. He seemed to perceive the fragrance exhaling from her; next moment
he must hear her breathing. He was so excited that he did not know he
had touched her until she looked round. She let her dress fall at once,
and after one or two more swift steps, stood still. His arm went round
her waist; he was on fire; he drew her tightly to him--to hear the
angriest: "Let me go!" Want of breath gave it its excessive sharpness.
Frans was appalled, but felt that he must support her until she
recovered breath, and therefore retained his hold. Again came with the
same compressed sharpness of breathlessness: "You are no gentleman!"