“How? I thought—nay, nay, you cannot remember her!”
“Yes, I do.”
“How and where?”
“The face, only the face, I remember that, nothing more!”
“It was a beautiful face, Zana.”
“I know it—very beautiful!”
His forehead grew heavy and dark. A look of wild horror came into his eyes that were dwelling upon me in apparent wrath.
Just then a gun was fired near us, and through the trees I saw George Irving and Morton coming toward us.
“Hush, no outcry,” whispered the man, drawing me back into a thicket. “Come, or do you wish them to see you?”
“No, no—heaven forbid!” I cried, shrinking under cover.