He was not excited.
He was not even perturbed, now that he saw that light in her eyes and
knew she was safe. But his love was there. She saw it and felt the force
of it behind the deadly calmness with which he was smiling at her. She
gave a little sob, so low it was scarcely more than a broken breath; a
little cry that came of wonder--understanding--and unspeakable faith in
this man who was smiling at her so confidently in the face of the
tragedy that had come to destroy her.
"Rossland is in your cabin," she whispered. "And John Graham is back
there--somewhere--coming this way. Rossland says that if I don't go to
him of my own free will--"
He felt the shudder that ran through her.
"I understand the rest," he said. They stood silent for a moment. The
gray-cheeked thrush was singing on the roof. Then, as if she had been a
child, he took her face between his hands and bent her head back a
little, so that he was looking straight into her eyes, and so near that
he could feel the sweet warmth of her breath.
"You didn't make a mistake the day I went away?" he asked. "You--love
me?"
"Yes."
For a moment longer he looked into her eyes. Then he stood back from
her. Even Keok and Nawadlook heard his laugh. It was strange, they
thought--Keok with her knife, and Nawadlook with her gun--for the bird
was singing, and Alan Holt was laughing, and Mary Standish was
very still.
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