He was joyously amazed at
her lightness. She was like a child in his arms, a glorious little
goddess hidden and smothered in her long hair, and he held her closer as
he hurried toward the cabins, conscious of the soft tightening of her
arms about his neck, feeling the sweet caress of her panting breath,
strengthened and made happy by her helplessness.
Thus they came out of the bottom as the first mist of slowly approaching
rain touched his face. He could see farther now--half-way back over the
narrow trail. He climbed a slope, and here Mary Standish slipped from
his arms and stood with new strength, looking into his face. His breath
was coming in little breaks, and he pointed. Faintly they could make out
the shadows of the corral buildings. Beyond them were no lights
penetrating the gloom from the windows of the range of houses. The
silence of the place was death-like.
And then something grew out of the earth almost at their feet. A hollow
cry followed the movement, a cry that was ghostly and shivering, and
loud enough only for them to hear, and Sokwenna stood at their side. He
talked swiftly. Only Alan understood. There was something unearthly and
spectral in his appearance; his hair and beard were wet; his eyes shot
here and there in little points of fire; he was like a gnome, weirdly
uncanny as he gestured and talked in his monotone while he watched the
nigger-head bottom.
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