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The girl's enthusiasm
for her new-found friend was such that the whole party decided to accept
his invitation. And so they did, spending a full day and night on the
ranch, exploring, under French's guidance, the beauty spots, and
investigating with the greatest interest, especially on Miss Marjorie's
part, the farming operations, over which Kalman was presiding.
That young man, in dumb
and abashed confusion of face, strictly avoided the party, appearing
only at meals. There, while he made a brave show, he was torn between
the conflicting emotions of admiration of the easy nonchalance and
self-possession with which Jack played the host, and of furious rage at
the air of proprietorship which Mr. Edgar Penny showed towards Miss
Marjorie. Gladly would he have crushed into a shapeless pulp the ruddy,
chubby face of that young man. Kalman found himself at times with his
eyes fixed upon the very spot where his fingers itched to grip that
thick-set neck, but in spite of these passing moments of fury, the whole
world was new to him. The blue of the sky, the shimmer of the lake, the
golden yellow of the poplars, all things in earth and heaven, were
shining with a new glory. For him the day's work had no weariness. He no
longer trod the solid ground, but through paths of airy bliss his soul
marched to the strains of celestial music.
Poor Kalman! When on
that fateful morning upon his virgin soul there dawned the vision of the
maid, the hour of fate struck for him. That most ancient and most divine
of frenzies smote him. He was deliciously, madly in love, though he knew
it not. It is something to his credit, however, that he allowed the
maiden to depart without giving visible token of this divine frenzy
raging within his breast, unless it were that in the blue of his eyes
there came a deeper blue, and that under the tan of his cheek a pallor
crept. But when on their going the girl suddenly turned in her saddle
and, waving her hand, cried, "Good-by, Kalman," the pallor fled, chased
from his cheek by a hot rush of Slavic blood as he turned to answer,
"Good-by." He held his hat high in a farewell salutation, as he had seen
Jack do, and then in another moment she was gone, and with her all the
glory of that golden autumn day.
To Kalman it seemed as
if months or years must have passed since he first saw her by her Aunt's
tent on that eventful morning. To take up the ordinary routine was
impossible to him. That very night, rolling up his blankets and grub for
three days, and strapping on to his saddle an axe and a shovel, Kalman
rode off down the Night Hawk Creek, telling Mackenzie gruffly, as he
called his dogs to follow, that he purposed digging out a coyote's den
that he knew lay somewhere between the lake and the Creek mouth.
The afternoon of the
second day found him far down the Creek, where it plunged headlong into
the black ravine below, not having discovered his wolf den and not much
caring whether he should or not; for as he rode through the thick scrub
he seemed to see dancing before him in the glancing beams that rained
down through the yellow poplar leaves a maiden's face with saucy brown
eyes that laughed at him and lured him and flouted him all at once.
At the edge of the
steep descent he held up his broncho. He had never been down this way
before. The sides of the ravine pitched sharply into a narrow gorge
through which the Night Hawk brawled its way to the Saskatchewan two
miles farther down.
"We'll scramble down
here, Jacob," he said to his broncho,--so named by Brown, for that he
had "supplanted" in Kalman's affection his first pony, the pinto.
He dismounted, drew the
reins over the broncho's head, and began the descent, followed by his
horse, slipping, sliding, hanging on now by trees and now by jutting
rocks. By the edge of what had once been a small landslip, he clutched a
poplar tree to save himself from going over; but the tree came away with
him, and horse and man slid and rolled down the slope, bringing with
them a great mass of earth and stone. Unhappily, Jacob in his descent
rolled over upon the boy's leg. There was a snap, a twinge of sharp
pain, and boy and horse lay half imbedded in the loose earth. Kalman
seized a stick that lay near at hand.
"Get up, Jacob, you
brute!" he cried, giving him a sharp blow.
Jacob responded with a
mighty plunge and struggled free, making it possible for Kalman to
extricate himself. He was relieved to discover that he could stand on
his feet and could walk, but only with extreme pain. Upon examination he
could find no sign of broken bones. He took a large handkerchief from
his neck, bound it tightly about his foot and ankle.
"I say, Jacob, we're
well out of that," he said, looking up at the great cave that had been
excavated by the landslip. "Quite a hole, eh? A great place to sleep in.
Lots of spruce about, too. We'll just camp here for the night. I guess
I'll have to let those coyotes go this trip. This beastly foot of mine
won't let me dig much. Hello!" he continued, "that's a mighty queer
rock. I'll just take a look at that hole."
He struggled up over
the debris and entered the cave. Through the earth there showed a
glistening seam slanting across one side and ending in a broken ledge.
"By Jove!" he cried,
copying Jack French in his habit of speech as in other habits, "that
looks like the coal we used to find along the Winnipeg tracks."
He broke off a piece of
the black seam. It crumbled in his hands.
"I guess not," he said;
"but we'll get the shovel at it."
Forgetting for the time
the pain of his foot, he scrambled down over the soft earth, got his
shovel, and was soon hard at work excavating the seam. Soon he had a
very considerable pile lying at the front of the cave.
"Now we'll soon see,"
he cried.
He hurriedly gathered
some dry wood, heaped the black stuff upon it, lighted it, and sat down
to wait the issue. Wild hopes were throbbing at his heart. He knew
enough of the value of coal to realize the importance of the discovery.
If it should prove to be coal, what a splendid thing it would be for
Jack and for him! How much they would be able to do for Mrs. French and
for his sister Irma! Amid his dreams a new face mingled, a face with
saucy brown eyes, but on that face he refused to allow himself the
rapture of looking. He dared not, at least not yet. Keenly he watched
the fire. Was it taking hold of the black lumps? The flames were dying
down. The wood had nearly burned itself out. The black lumps were
charred and dead, and with their dying died his hopes.
He glanced out upon the
ravine. Large soft flakes of snow were falling lazily through the trees.
"I'll get my blankets
and grub under cover, and get some more wood for the night. It's going
to be cold."
He heaped the remains
of the wood he had gathered upon the fire, and with great difficulty,
for his foot was growing more and more painful with every move, he set
about gathering wood, of which there was abundance near at hand, and
making himself snug for the night. He brought up a pail of water from
the Creek, and tethered his broncho where there was a bunch of grass at
the bottom of the ravine. Before he had finished these operations the
ground was white with snow, and the wind was beginning to sigh ominously
through the trees.
"Going to be a
blizzard, sure," he said. "But let her blow. We're all right in here.
Hello! where are those dogs? After the wolves, I'll be bound. They'll
come back when they're ready."
With every moment the
snow came down more thickly, and the wind grew toward a gale.
"If it's going to be a
storm, I'd better lay in some more wood."
At the cost of great
pain and labour, he dragged within reach of the cave a number of dead
trees. He was disgusted to find his stock of provisions rather low.
"I wish I'd eaten
less," he grumbled. "If I'm in for a three days' storm, and it looks
like that, my grub will run out. I'll have a cup of tea to-night and
save the grub for to-morrow."
As he was busy with
these preparations, a sudden darkness fell on the valley. A strange
sound like a muffled roaring came up the ravine. In a single minute
everything was blotted out before him. There hung down before his eyes a
white, whirling, blinding, choking mass of driving snow.
"By Jove! that's a
corker of a blizzard, sure enough! I'll draw my fire further in."
He seized his shovel
and began to scrape the embers of his fire together. With a shout he
dropped his shovel, fell on his knees, and gazed into the fire. Under
the heap of burning wood there was a mass of glowing coal.
"Coal!" he shouted,
rushing to the front of the cave. "Coal! Coal! Oh, Jack! Dear old Jack!
It's coal!"
Trembling between fear
and hope, he broke in pieces the glowing lumps, rushed back to the seam,
gathered more of the black stuff, and heaped it around the fire. Soon
his doubts were all at rest. The black lumps were soon on fire and
blazed up with a blue flame. But for his foot, he would have mounted
Jacob and ridden straight off for the ranch through all the storm.
"Let her snow!" he
cried, gazing into the whirling mist before his eyes. "I've got the
stuff that beats blizzards!"
He turned to his tea
making, now pausing to examine the great black seam, and again going to
the cave entrance to whistle for his dogs. As he stood listening to the
soft whishing roar of the storm, he thought he heard the deep bay of
Queen's voice. Holding his breath, he listened again. In the pause of
the storm he heard, and distinctly this time, that deep musical note.
"They're digging out a
wolf," he said. "They'll get tired and come back soon."
He drank his tea,
struggled down the steep slope, the descent made more difficult by the
covering of soft snow upon it, and drew another pail of water for
evening use. Still the dogs did not appear. He went to the cave's mouth
again, and whistled loud and long. This time quite distinctly he caught
Queen's long, deep bay, and following that, a call as of a human voice.
"What?" he said, "some
one out in that storm?"
He dropped upon his
knees, put his hands up to his ears, and listened intently again. Once
more, in a lull of the gale, he heard a long, clear call.
"Heavens above!" he
cried, "a woman's voice! And I can't make a hundred yards with this foot
of mine."
He knew enough of
blizzards to realize the extreme danger to any one caught in those
blinding, whirling snow clouds.
"I can't stay here, and
I can't make it with this foot, but--yes-- By Jove! Jacob can, though."
He seized his saddle
and struggled out into the storm. Three paces from the door he fell
headlong into a soft drift, wrenching his foot anew. Choking, blinded,
and almost fainting with the pain, he got to his feet once more and
fought his way down the slope to where he knew his horse must be.
"Jacob!" he called,
"where are you?"
The faithful broncho
answered with a glad whinny.
"All right, old boy,
I'll get you."
In a few minutes he was
on the broncho's back and off down the valley, feeling his way carefully
among the trees and over stones and logs. As he went on, he caught now
and then Queen's ringing bugle-note, and as often as he caught it he
answered with a loud "Halloo!" It was with the utmost difficulty that he
could keep Jacob's head toward the storm. Yard by yard he pressed his
way against the gale, holding his direction by means of the flowing
stream. Nearer and nearer sounded the cry of the hound, till in answer
to his shouting he heard a voice call loud and clear. The valley grew
wider, the timber more open, and his progress became more rapid. Soon,
through the drifting mass, he caught sight of two white moving figures.
The dogs bounded toward him.
"Hello there!" he
called. "Here you are; come this way."
He urged forward his
horse till he was nearly upon them.
"Oh, Kalman! Kalman! I
knew it was you!"
In an instant he was
off his horse and at her side.
"You! You!" he shouted
aloud above the howling gale. "Marjorie! Marjorie!" He had her in his
arms, kissing her face madly, while sobbing, panting, laughing, she sank
upon his breast.
"Oh, Kalman! Kalman!"
she gasped. "You must stop! You must stop! Oh! I am so glad! You must
stop!"
"God in Heaven!"
shouted the man, boy no longer. "Who can stop me? How can I stop? You
might have died here in the snow!"
At a little distance
the other figure was hanging to a tree, evidently near to exhaustion.
"Oh, Kalman, we were
fair done when the dogs came, and then I wouldn't stop, for I knew you
were near. But my! my! you were so long!"
The boy still held her
in his arms.
"I say, young man, what
the deuce are we going to do? I'm played out. I cawn't move a blawsted
foot."
The voice recalled
Kalman from heaven to earth. He turned to the speaker and made out Mr.
Edgar Penny.
"Do!" cried Kalman.
"Why, make for my camp. Come along. It's up stream a little distance,
and we can feel our way. Climb up, Marjorie."
"Can I?"
"Yes, at once," said
Kalman, taking full command of her. "Now, hold on tight, and we'll soon
be at camp."
With the gale in their
backs, they set off up stream, the men holding by the stirrups. For some
minutes they battled on through the blizzard. Well for them that they
had the brawling Creek to guide them that night, for through this
swaying, choking curtain of snow it was impossible to see more than a
horse length.
In a few minutes Mr.
Penny called out, "I say, I cawn't go a step further. Let's rest a bit."
He sat down in the snow. Every moment the wind was blowing colder.
"Come on!" shouted
Kalman through the storm. "We must keep going or we'll freeze."
But there was no
answer.
"Mr. Penny! Mr. Penny!"
cried Marjorie, "get up! We must go on!"
Still there was no
answer. Kalman made his way round to the man's side. He was fast asleep.
"Get up! Get up, you
fool, or you will be smothered!" said Kalman, roughly shaking him. "Get
up, I say!"
He pulled the man to
his feet and they started on once more, Mr. Penny stumbling along like a
drunken man.
"Let me walk, Kalman,"
entreated Marjorie. "I feel fresh and strong. He can't go on, and he
will only keep us back."
"You walk!" cried
Kalman. "Never! If he can't keep up let him stay and die."
"No, Kalman, I am quite
strong."
She slipped off the
horse, Kalman growling his wrath and disgust, and together they assisted
Mr. Penny to mount. By this time they had reached the thickest part of
the woods. The trees broke to some extent the force of the wind, but the
cold was growing more intense.
"Single file here!"
shouted Kalman to Marjorie. "You follow me."
Slowly, painfully,
through the darkness and drifted snow, with teeth clenched to keep back
the groans which the pain of his foot was forcing from him, Kalman
stumbled along. At length a misstep turned his foot. He sank with a
groan into the snow. With a cry Marjorie was beside him.
"Oh, Kalman, you have
hurt yourself!"
"It is this cursed foot
of mine," he groaned. "I twisted it and something's broken, I am afraid,
and it IS rather sore."
"Hello there! what's
up?" cried Mr. Penny from his saddle. "I'm getting beastly cold up
here."
Marjorie turned
wrathfully upon him.
"Here, you great lazy
thing, come down!" she cried. "Kalman, you must ride."
But Kalman was up and
once more leading the way.
"We're almost there,"
he cried. "Come along; he couldn't find the path."
"It's just a great
shame!" cried Marjorie, half sobbing, keeping by his side. "Can't I help
you? Let me try."
Her arm around him put
new life into him.
"By Jove! I see a
fire," shouted Mr. Penny.
"That's camp," said
Kalman, pausing for breath while Marjorie held him up. "We're just
there."
And so, staggering and
stumbling, they reached the foot of the landslip. Here Kalman took the
saddle off Jacob, turned him loose, and clambered up to the cave,
followed by the others. Mr. Penny sank to the ground and lay upon the
cave floor like one dead.
"Well, here we are at
last," said Kalman, "thank God!"
"Yes, thank God!" said
Marjorie softly, "and--you, Kalman."
She sank to her knees
on the ground, and putting her face in her hands, burst into tears.
"What is it, Marjorie?"
said Kalman, taking her hands down from her face. "Are you hurt? What is
it? I can't bear to see you cry like that." But he didn't kiss her. The
conventionalities were seizing upon him again. His old shyness was
stealing over his spirit. "Tell me what to do," he said.
"Do!" cried Marjorie
through her sobs. "What more can you do? Oh, Kalman, you have saved me
from an awful death!"
"Don't speak of it,"
said the boy with a shudder. "Don't I know it? I can't bear to think of
it. But are you all right?"
"Right?" said Marjorie
briskly, wiping away her tears. "Of course I'm all right, an' sair
hungry, tae."
"Why, of course. What a
fool I am!" said Kalman. "I'll make you tea in a minute."
"No, let me," cried
Marjorie. "Your poor foot must be awful. Where's your teapot? I'm a
gran' tea maker, ye ken." She was in one of her daft moods, as Aunt
Janet would say.
Never was such tea as
that which they had from the tin tea pail and from the one tin cup. What
though the blizzard howled its loudest in front of their cave? What
though the swirling snow threatened now and then to douse their fire?
What though the tea boiled over and the pork burned to a crisp? What
though a single bannock stood alone between them and starvation? What
cared they? Heaven was about them, and its music was ringing in their
hearts.
Refreshed by their tea,
they sat before the blazing fire, all three, drying their soaked
garments, while Mr. Penny and Marjorie recounted their experiences. They
had intended to make Wakota, but missed the trail. The day was fine,
however, and that gave them no concern till the storm came up, when
suddenly they had lost all sense of direction and allowed their ponies
to take them where they would. With the instinct bred on the plains, the
ponies had made for the shelter of the Night Hawk ravine. Up the ravine
they had struggled till the darkness and the thick woods had forced them
to abandon the ponies.
"I wonder what the poor
things will do?" interjected Marjorie.
"They'll look after
themselves, never fear," said Kalman. "They live out all winter here."
Then through the drifts
they had fought their way, till in the moment of their despair the dogs
came upon them.
"We thought they were
wolves," cried Marjorie, "till one began to bay, and I knew it was the
foxhound. And then I was sure that you would not be far away. We
followed the dogs for a while, and I kept calling and calling,--poor Mr.
Penny had lost his voice entirely,--till you came and found us."
A sweet confusion
checked her speech. The heat of the fire became suddenly insupportable,
and putting up her hand to protect her face, she drew back into the
shadow.
Mr. Penny, under the
influence of a strong cup of boiling tea and a moderate portion of the
bannock and pork,--for Kalman would not allow him full rations,--became
more and more confident that they "would have made it."
"Why, Mr. Penny," cried
Marjorie, "you couldn't move a foot further. Don't you remember how
often you sat down, and I had just to pull you up?"
"Oh," said Mr. Penny,
"it was the beastly drift getting into my eyes and mouth, don't you
know. But I would have pulled up again in a minute. I was just getting
my second wind. By Jove! I'm strong on my second wind, don't you know."
But Marjorie was quite
unconvinced, while Kalman said nothing. Over and over again they
recounted the tale of their terrors and their struggle, each time with
some new incident; but ever and anon there would flame up in Marjorie's
cheek the flag of distress, as if some memory smote her with a sudden
blow, and her hand would cover her cheek as if to ward off those other
and too ardent kisses of the dancing flames. But at such times about her
lips a fitful smile proclaimed her distress to be not quite unendurable.
At length Mr. Penny
felt sleepy, and stretching himself upon the dry earth before the fire,
passed into unconsciousness, leaving the others to themselves. Over the
bed of spruce boughs in the corner Kalman spread his blankets, moving
about with painful difficulty at his task, his groans growing more
frequent as they called forth from his companion exclamations of tender
commiseration.
The story of those
vigil hours could not be told. How they sat now in long silences, gazing
into the glowing coals, and again conversing in low voices lest Mr.
Penny's vocal slumbers should be disturbed; how Marjorie told the short
and simple story of her life, to Kalman all wonderful; how Kalman told
the story of his life, omitting parts, and how Marjorie's tender eyes
overflowed and her rosy cheeks grew pale and her hand crept toward his
arm as he told the tragedy of his mother's death; how she described with
suppressed laughter the alarms of her dear Aunt Janet that morning-- was
it a month ago?--how he told of Jack French, what a man he was and how
good; how she spoke of her father and his strength and his tenderness,
and of how he spoiled her, against which Kalman vehemently protested;
how he told of Brown and his work for the poor ignorant Galicians, and
of the songs they sang together; how she made him sing, at first in
undertones soft and low, lest poor Mr. Penny's sleep should be broken,
and then in tones clear and full, the hymns in which Brown and French
used to join, and then, in obedience to her peremptory commands, his own
favourite Hungarian love-song, of which he shyly told her; how her eyes
shone like stars, her cheeks paled, and her hands held fast to each
other in the ecstasy of her rapture while he told her what it all meant,
at first with averted looks, and then boldly pouring the passion of his
soul into her eyes, till they fell before the flame in his as he sang
the refrain,
"While the flower blooms
in the meadow,
And fishes swim the sea,
Heart of my heart, soul of my soul,
I'll love and live for thee";
how then shyness fell
on her and she moved ever so little to her own side of the fire; how he,
sensitive to her every emotion, rose at once to build the fire, telling
her for the first time then of his wonderful discovery, which he had
clean forgot; how together on tiptoe they examined, with heads in close
proximity and voices lowered to a whisper, the black seam that ran down
a side of the cave; how they discussed the possible value of it and what
it might mean to Kalman; and then how they fell silent again till Kalman
commanded her to bed, to which she agreed only upon condition that he
should rouse Mr. Penny when his watch should be over; how she woke in
broad daylight to find him with breakfast ready, the blizzard nearly
done, and the sun breaking through upon a wonderful world, white and
fairylike; how they vainly strove to simulate an ease of manner, to
forget some of the things that happened the night before, and that
neither could ever forget till the heart should cease to beat.
All this might be told,
had one the art. But no art or skill of man could tell how, as they
talked, there flew from eye to eye, hers brown and his blue-grey, those
swift, fluttering signals of the heart; how he watched to see on her
cheek the red flush glow and pale again, not sure whether it was from
the fire upon the cave floor or from the fire that burns eternal in the
heart of man and maid; how, as he talked and sang, she feared and loved
to see the bold leap of passion in his eyes; and how she speedily
learned what words or looks of hers could call up that flash; how, as
she slept, he piled high the fire, not that she might be warm, but that
the light might fall upon her face and he might drink and drink till his
heart could hold no more, of her sweet loveliness; how, when first
waking, her eyes fell on him moving softly about the cave, and then
closed again till she could dream again her dream and drink in slow sips
its rapture; how he feared to meet her waking glance, lest it should
rebuke his madness of the night; how, as her eyes noted the haggard look
of sleepless watching and of pain, her heart flowed over as with a
mother's pity for her child, and how she longed to comfort him but dared
not; how he thought of the coming days and feared to think of them,
because in them she would have no place or part; how she looked into the
future and wondered what like would be a life in this new and wonderful
land--all this, no matter what his skill or art, no man could tell.
It was still morning
when Jack French and Brown rode up the Night Hawk ravine, driving two
saddled ponies before them. Their common anxiety had furnished the
occasion for the healing of the breach that for a year and more had held
these friends apart.
With voluble enthusiasm
Mr. Penny welcomed them, plunging into a graphic account of their
struggle with the storm till happily they came upon the dogs, who led
them to Kalman and his camp. But French, brushing him aside, strode past
to where, trembling and speechless, Marjorie stood, and then, taking her
in his arms, he whispered many times in her ears, "Thank God, little
girl, you are safe."
And Margaret, putting
her arms around Jack's neck, whispered through radiant tears, "It was
Kalman, Jack. Don't listen to yon gommeril. It was Kalman saved us; and
oh, Jack, he is just lovely!"
And Jack, patting her
cheek, said, "I know all about him."
"Do you, indeed?" she
answered, with a knowing smile. "I doubt. But oh! he has broken his foot
or something. And oh, Jack, he has got a mine!"
And Jack, not knowing
what she meant, looked curiously into her face and wondered, till Brown,
examining Kalman's foot and finding a broken bone, exclaimed wrathfully,
"Say, boy, you don't tell me you have been walking on this foot?"
But Kalman answered
nothing.
"He came for me--for
us, Mr. Brown, through that awful storm," cried Marjorie penitently;
"and is it broken? Oh, Kalman, how could you?"
But Kalman still
answered nothing. His dream was passing from him. She was restored to
her world and was no longer in his care.
"And here's his mine,"
cried Marjorie, turning Jack toward the black seam.
"By Jove!" cried Mr.
Penny, "and I never saw it. You never showed it to me."
But during those hours
spent in the cave Kalman and Marjorie had something other to occupy
their minds than mines. Jack French examined the seam closely and in
growing excitement.
"By the Lord Harry!
Kalman, did you find this?"
Kalman nodded
indifferently. Mines were nothing to him now.
"How did you light upon
it?"
And Kalman told him
how.
"He's just half dead
and starved," said Marjorie in a voice that broke with pity. "He watched
all last night while we slept away like a pair o' stirks."
At the tone in her
voice, Jack French turned and gave her a searching look. The quick, hot
blood flamed into her cheeks, and in her eyes dawned a frank shyness as
she gave him back his look.
"I don't care," she
said at length; "he's fair dune oot."
But Jack only nodded
his head sagely while he whispered to her, "Happy boy, happy boy! Two
mines in one night!"
At which the red flamed
up again and she fell to examining with greater diligence the seam of
black running athwart the cave side.
In a few minutes they
were mounted and away, Brown riding hard to bring the great news to the
engineer's camp and recall the hunting parties; the rest to make the
ranch, Marjorie in front in happy sparkling converse with Jack French,
and Kalman, haggard and gloomy, bringing up the rear. A new man was
being brought to birth within him, and sore were the parturition pangs.
For one brief night she had been his; now back to her world, she was his
no more.
It was quite two days
before the shining sun and the eager air had licked up from earth the
drifts of snow, and two days before Marjorie felt quite sure she was
able to bear again the rigours of camp life, and two days before Aunt
Janet woke up to the fact that that foreign young man was altogether too
handsome to be riding from morning till night with her niece. For Jack,
meanwhile, was attending with assiduous courtesy the Aunt and receiving
radiant looks of gratitude from the niece. Two days of Heaven, when
Kalman forgot all but that she was beside him; two days of hell when he
remembered that he was but a poor foreign boy and she a great English
lady. Two days and they said farewell. Marjorie was the last, turning
first to French, who kissed her, saying, "Come back again, little girl,"
and then to Kalman, sitting on his broncho, for he hated to go lame
before them all.
"Good-by, Kalman," she
said, smiling bravely, while her lips quivered. "I'll no forget yon
awful and," leaning slightly toward him as he took her hand, "yon happy
night. Good-by for now. I'll no forget."
And Kalman, looking
straight into her eyes, held her hand without a word till, withdrawing
it from his hold, she turned away, leaving the smile with him and
carrying with her the quivering lips.
"I shall ride a bit
with you, little girl," said Jack French, who was ever quick with his
eyes.
She tried to smile at
him, but failed piteously. But Jack rode close to her, talking bright
nothings till she could smile again.
"Oh, Jack, but you are
the dear!" she said to him as they galloped together up the trail, Mr.
Penny following behind. "I'll mind this to you."
But before they took
the descent to the Night Hawk ravine, they heard a thunder of hoofs, and
wheeling, found Kalman bearing down upon them.
"Mercy me!" cried Aunt
Janet, "what's wrang wi' the lad?"
"I have come to say
good-by," he shouted, his broncho tearing up the earth by Marjorie's
side.
Reaching out his hands,
he drew her toward him and kissed her before them all, once, again, and
yet again, with Aunt Janet screaming, "Mercy sakes alive! The lad is
daft! He'll do her a hurt!"
"Hoots! woman, let the
bairns be," cried Marjorie's father. "He saved her for us."
But having said his
farewell, Kalman rode away, waving his hand and singing at the top of
his voice his Hungarian love-song,
"While the flower blooms
in the meadow,
And fishes swim the sea,
Heart of my heart, soul of my soul,
I'll love and live for thee,"
which none but Marjorie
could understand, but they all stood watching as he rode away, and
listening,
"With my lances at my
back,
My good sword at my knee,
Light of my life, joy of my soul,
I'll fight, I'll die for thee!"
And as the song ceased
she rode away, and as she rode she smiled. |
