"Some frightened half-breed wench," surmised the priest.
I saw it was a woman with a shawl over her head like a native.
"Bon soir!" said I after the manner of traders with Indian women; but she rushed blindly on to the gate.
The fort was deserted. Suspicion of treachery flashed on me. How many more half-breeds were beneath that cliff?
"Stop, huzzie!" I ordered, springing forward and catching her so tightly by the wrist that she swung half-way round before she could check herself. She wrenched vigorously to get free. "Stop! Be still, you huzzie!"
"Be still—you what?" asked a low, amazed voice that broke in ripples and froze my blood. A shawl fluttered to the ground, and there stood before us the apparition of a marble face.
"The Little Statue!" I gasped in sheer horror at what I had done.
"The little—what?" asked the rippling voice, that sounded like cold water flowing under ice, and a pair of eyes looked angrily down at the hand with which I was still unconsciously gripping her arm.
"I'd thank you, Sir," she began, with a mock courtesy to the priest, "I'd thank you, Sir, to call off your mastiff."
"Let her go, boy!" roared the priest with a hammering blow across my forearm that brought me to my senses and convinced me she was no wraith.