She managed to raise herself along the broken wall, and forced her way through the narrow aperture into the open air. Her face and hands were bleeding from the wounds she had received against the sharp stones, but she felt no pain.
She was completely hidden from the view of all those about the house by a dense thicket of cactus and flowery shrubs, which formed a thick wall for a considerable distance. Her pony was tied to a tree where she had herself stationed him early in the evening. For the first time a look of exultation shot into her face—she was safe now!
Before mounting her horse, she crept along the edge of the thicket to a spot from whence she could command a view of the house.
The crowd was still rushing wildly about—she could hear their murmurs and execrations. The moon had set, but the cold dawn cast a gray light over the landscape.
Sybil turned her eyes toward the dwelling. She saw the pine-tree—that one projecting branch from which a fragment of the silk scarf fluttered yet.
After that momentary glance she started up, mounted her pony, and rode rapidly away through the forest.
So the day broke, still and calm. The first glow of the sun tinged the mountain tops, leaving the valley still in deep shadow. The excited throngs moved restlessly about, and at length group after group started away from the house, anxious to escape the sickening sight which met their eyes; now that their fury was satiated, they turned in dread away.
The sun mounted higher in the heavens, shot dazzlingly against the sides of the mountains, colored the noisy torrent, and played softly about the old house.
Not a living thing was in sight. The sun played over the grass, rustled the vines, and there, in the silence and amid the shadows, hung that still form, swayed slowly to and fro by the light breeze that struck the branches.