not one to own himself vanquished by difficulties before which a woman did not quail.  Twice and thrice, however, they were both driven back again round some comparatively sheltered corner by the mere fury of the wind, which battled with them as stubbornly as though it were the disembodied spirits, of the ancient defenders of the place; and when, mechanically, and almost of necessity, Richard’s arm sought the young girl’s waist, whose garments made it more difficult for her to advance than for him, she did not reject its welcome aid.  Then, just as his disengaged hand was clinging to a pinnacle of rock, his hat blew off, exactly as she had predicted, and his dark curls mixed with hers in wild confusion.  Thus, foot by foot, they won their way, and reached at last the iron-spiked door, the only work of modern hands on that gray rock.  This screened them from the gale; and, as they stood a while to rest beneath its shelter, she showed him what a handsome key her father had made for it, with cunning wards, more suitable for a banker’s safe than for such ancient relics as they guarded, and told him how the gate was put there to exclude the summer visitors, who would otherwise enter without fee.

“Nay, but I will pay my fee,” said Richard, gallantly; and, since their cheeks were almost touching as it was, the debt was easily discharged on her ripe lips.

“For shame, Sir!” cried the girl, indignantly; and there was something in her face and voice which showed him that her anger was not feigned.  “I am sorry I brought you here, mistaking you for a gentleman.  Here is the key, Sir; but I go back alone.”  And she freed herself roughly from his arm, and turned to go.

“For Heaven’s sake, don’t!” cried Richard, earnestly.  “You may call me any thing you please, but do not let my rudeness prove your peril.  I was rude, but, on my honor, I did not intend to be so.  I meant no harm, although I see I have vexed you.  Forgive me, pray; I did not mean to be either ungenerous or ungrateful.  Is it thought so very wrong at Gethin—­even with such great temptation—­”

“Yes, Sir, it is,” she broke in, vehemently; “and I was wrong to come with you.”

“Nay, don’t say that,” pleaded the young fellow.  “How could you be wrong to do so great a kindness to a stranger as you have done to me?  It was my sense of it—­my heartfelt sense, believe me, of the trouble and toil you have undergone for my sake; and I don’t deny, Harry, your beauty too, of which I have never seen the like.  But there, I am offending you again.  Pray, come into the shelter; it makes me sick to see you in such danger;” and to make room for her, and at the same time to stand as much apart from her as possible, he stepped back, forgetting the scanty space on which he stood, and—­fell!

A yard—­a mile—­he scarcely could say which, so overwhelming for the instant was his sense of peril!  He only knew that he was flying through space.  Then, suddenly, his feet found foothold, and his hands clung to the gray rock, and the driving wind beat on his body ceaselessly, and seemed to nail him where he clung.