n of this delayed happiness.

"Mine?" He laughed. "My dreams."

"You are a strange combination, aren't you? In one way you're so very
practical--with your politics and all that. And in another way--I
suspect you of being sentimental--almost romantic."

"You've plucked out the heart of my mystery. My real name is non
Quixote de Saint X."

"And has your Dulcinea red hands and a flat nose and freckles like the
lady of Toboso?" Gladys' hands were white, her nose notably fine, her
skin transparently clear.

"Being Don Quixote, I don't know it if she has."

"And you prefer to worship afar, and to send her news of your triumphs
instead of going to her yourself?"

"I dare not go." He was looking away, far away. "There are wicked
enchanters. I'm powerless. She alone can break their spells."

They walked in silence, her heart beating so loudly that she thought he
must be hearing it, must be hearing what it was saying. Yes--she must
break the spells. But how--but how? What must she say to make him
see? Did he expect her to ask him to marry her? She had heard that
rich women often were forced to make this concession to the pride of
the men they wished to marry. On the other hand, was there ever a man
less likely than Scarborough to let any obstacle stand between him and
what he wanted?

The first huge drops of a summer rain pattered in big, round stains,
brown upon the white of the road. He glanced up--a cloud was rolling
from beyond the cliffs, was swiftly curtaining the blue.

"Come," he commanded, and they darted into the underbrush, he guiding
her by her arm. A short dash among the trees and bushes and they were
at the base of the bluff, were shielded by a shelf of rock.

"It'll be over soon," he assured her. "But you must stand close or
you'll be drenched."

A clap of thunder deafened them as a flame and a force enswathed the
sycamore tree a few yards away, blowing off its bark, scattering its
branches, making it all in an instant a blackened and blasted wreck.
Gladys gave a low scream of terror, fell against him, hid her face in
his shoulder. She was trembling violently. He put his arm round
her--if he had not supported her she would have fallen. She leaned
against him, clinging to him, so that he felt the beat of her heart,
the swell and fall of her bosom, felt the rush of her young blood
through her veins, felt the thrill from her smooth, delicate, olive
skin. And he, too, was trembling-