“Yseulte—love—I am no spectre,” said the voice she knew so well. “I have come straight to you as soon as I learned where to find you. Come to me, darling!”
He had sprung to the ground, and stood awaiting her. The spell was broken. A loud cry rang through the wood, and then she was in his arms—laughing, weeping, sobbing, then laughing again. Words were out of the question.
The wintry night fell black upon the glooming oakwoods, weirdly musical with the mournful hooting of the owls. But there was no gloom in the hearts of these two who now stepped from those thickening shades.
A crunch of wheels on the gravel, a flash of lamps, and the dog-cart deposited the two shooters at the front door.
“Hallo, Chickie! What’s in the wind, now?” exclaimed Mr Santorex, staring in amazement, as his daughter, hardly giving him time to alight, had flown at him and flung her arms around his neck, her face all aglow with more than the happiness of former days.
“Father! He’s in there. Go in and see him!”
“He? What the deuce! In where? Give a fellow a chance! Who’s he?”
“Mr Vipan.”
“Oh, ah—I remember. The champion scalp-hunter. Come to life again, has he? Let’s have a look at him.”
As the door opened a tall figure rose from a chair, advancing with outstretched hand.