She did not fall far, but she struck the ground with a sickening thud, heard a frill of her dress tear with a sound something like a scream as it caught on the thorns of a rose. She wrenched herself free. Then without waiting to wonder if she were hurt she jumped to her feet and started to run. She made for the wall which surrounded the Villa, feeling through the thin soles of her evening slippers first the soft soil of the flower beds then the hardness of the paved path.

As she ran, she heard behind her the sound of many chattering voices and the Rajah shouting a command. She reached the wall and, as she did so, a carriage came dashing up the hill, the horses managing to travel at a good pace even against the steep incline. The carriage drew up at the gate of the Villa and before the horses were even at a standstill, a man flung open the door and jumped out. Mistral, scrambling over the wall, could see him very clearly.

It was the Prince.

With her last remaining breath she managed to scream, to attract his attention.

‘Help, Your Serene Highness! Help!’

He heard her and turned back in the very act of opening the iron gates.

‘Mistral!’

He called out her name in astonishment and then came running towards her. She ran too and, as they met, she threw herself at him, clutching the lapels of his coat and raising a white, terrified face to his.

‘Take me away! Quickly, quickly! Please take me away!’

The Prince took a quick look at her and swept her up into his arms. He carried her to the carriage, lifted her inside and gave an order to the coachman. Then he jumped in himself and slammed the door. As they drove away, Mistral saw that the door of the Villa was open and that the light was streaming out. Servants were running into the garden, spreading out down the labyrinth of paths, peering among the bushes and flowering shrubs. But it was too late! She had escaped!

She gave a gasp of utter relief and would have put her hands up to her face, but as she moved them, she became aware that the first finger of her left hand was bleeding. She must have caught it on a nail.

The interior of the carriage was lit by a candle lantern and by its light the Prince could see the red blood running down the palm of Mistral’s hand and on to the front of her torn grey dress.

‘You have hurt yourself,’ he exclaimed and drew a handkerchief from his pocket.

‘It – does not – matter,’ Mistral replied, catching her breath and conscious of a strange constriction in her throat. ‘You have saved me – you have taken me – away. They would – have caught me – otherwise.’

‘You should have let me deal with that swine,’ the Prince said angrily.