Wood—" "That's false!" cried a voice behind him. Perhaps I ought not to; but this isn't a case to fiddle-faddle over. " "Your prisoner!" echoed Jonathan, derisively. At the recollection that it was his, she seemed to fall through a thin surface, as one might fall through the crust of a lava into glowing depths. " "Back!" cried Rowland. " "This comes of fine feelings!" muttered Jonathan, contemptuously. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her.
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