It was Keler Beler's "Am Schoenen Rhein" they were playing at the moment, with its sweet, weird, luring, mournful, warning Lorelei motif dominating in the waltz measure, and, with parted lips and clinging to her father's side, Lilian stood close to the window and looked and listened, saying not one word. There were but three couples dancing at the moment. There might as well have been but one for, within the hall and without, the eyes of all seemed fastened on that. Some strange caprice had prompted Evelyn Darrah to wear black that night—a grenadine, with cobweb lace and glinting spangles and sweeping train, the bodice cut low and displaying her shapely arms and neck and shoulders, enhancing the grace of her tall and slender form. Her dark hair was coiled in masses, yet here and there a curl or tendril fell upon the soft, polished skin, or floated about cheek and temple. Her eyelids, heavily lashed, veiled her downcast eyes. Her coral lips were slightly parted. Her almost queenly head was bowed as though to incline that little ear to catch the words he was eagerly pouring into it. Not a vestige of a smile was on either face, each was dark, sombre, beautiful, absorbed. His handsome head was bowed until the curling mustache swept her rounded, flushing cheek. In exquisite rhythm and harmony the two tall, graceful forms swayed in unison with the exquisite love music, every step, every motion perfectly attuned. It seemed as though no guiding were necessary. Slowly gliding, turning, reversing, he in his faultless uniform, she in her sweeping, diaphanous sable, seemed, without effort or the faintest exertion, fairly floating upon air. No wonder they sat or stood and gazed—these elders along the bordering benches—these others among the dancers—these few, wordless, at the windows. Then, with the Lorelei melody lingering to the last, the sweet, sad music died away and the waltz was ended. People began to move toward the doorway. "They're going for their bite and sup," said Mrs. Crook. "See, there go the bandsmen. Shall—we?"
"I think not, if you don't mind," said Mrs. Archer with anxious glance at the other window, where Lilian still stood, looking straight at the doorway through which that couple had led and so many now were following. She had neither spoken nor moved, nor had he, her father. His back was toward them, but from the very pose of his head the wife well knew his eyes were fixed upon the face of his beloved child, with who can say what depth of sorrow, sympathy, yearning for her—with what passion of wrath and resentment for him. "Come," said Mrs. Crook briefly, for she, too, saw. Then Archer gently laid his hand upon the slender fingers that seemed clinching his arm, and with sudden little gasp or sob, and shiver, Lilian whirled upon him, her eyes big and dry and glittering. "Oh! wasn't it—didn't they dance—beautifully?" she cried, as he ground his teeth and turned to lead her away.
And just at that instant—just as such things will happen, who should come chirruping round the corner but the chaplain and his wife, with Mrs. Chief Quartermaster and a guest from Camp Sandy, just in time to stumble upon Mrs. Crook and Mrs. Archer vainly striving to dodge and get home. It was too late. They were captured, surrounded, pounced upon. "Oh, when did you come?" "Oh, how did you get here?" "Oh, where is Lilian?" etc., etc., and Archer, never hesitating, quick was he in action ever, instantly turned about. "This way, sweetheart," he murmured, in the fond father love that welled from his great heart. A few strides carried them back into the darkness, around by the westward end, where the clamor of voices and clatter of cups and plates at the supper room drowned other sounds, and then in the darkness he led his darling, voiceless still, across the little wooden bridge and up the gentle slope among the cedars, hoping by a wide detour to dodge these importunates and lead his child to her own room, and there mount guard over her until the mother came. There is a sorrow that passeth understanding, and is known not of all men—the mute, helpless, impotent sorrow of the father who feels the heartache, and sees the suffering of a beloved child, and cannot even trust himself to speak of it.
And Fate was still against them. The God that meant to cure was merciful and merciless as is the knife. Sinless as was this gentle flower, even she must suffer and endure, for here were obstacles again, even here across their path! They were upon them almost before they knew it, yet upon them unseen, unheard, for, absorbed in each other, this opposing couple knew nothing but their own affair, and well they might, for a sob was the first sound to catch the soldier's ear, a stifled cry, and then a deep, manly voice imploring, protesting, a torrent of murmured words, fond, assuring, caressing, passionate, a deluge of thrilling endearments, a mingling of sobs and kisses, for the woman's overcharged nature had broken under the strain, and in the refuge of his clasping arms was sobbing her heart out on this new lover's breast. Archer, raging, would have brushed them by, but Lilian held him. "Not that way; oh, not that way!" she whispered hoarsely. And then he understood, and together they fled back the way they came.
CHAPTER XXVII.
It was a merciful Providence, as many of the exiles later said, that brought the commanding general himself late that starlit evening back to Prescott. His stout mountain wagon, and special six-mule team had whirled him up from the Verde after the briefest of conferences with the cavalry colonel there in command. An Indian runner from Almy had reached them early that Thursday morning, announcing the return of Stannard and his troop, accompanied by Lieutenant Harris, 'Tonio and certain of the Apache-Mohaves, the arrest by civil authorities and attempted suicide of Case, and the further gathering under the wing of the law of José Sanchez, of Muñoz, and even of Dago, all of whom, it was said, were wanted at Prescott. Stannard found the Archers gone, found himself, as senior captain, temporarily in command of the post, and called upon to furnish military escort for the civil posse comitatus. Stannard was a soldier pure and simple. He would have shown as a mammoth bull in a china shop had he and his troop been at the moment in the Southern states, instead of the south-western territory. He stood ready to do any amount of arresting the government might order. He was entirely willing to send a subaltern and a score of troopers to convoy the entire party—sheriff and deputies, posse and prisoners—to the territorial capital, but, like the old war-horse he was, he balked, stiff-necked and stiff-legged, at the sheriff's demand that the escort should report to him—should be, in point of fact, under his orders.
Not to put too fine a point upon it, Stannard had said he'd see him damned first, whereupon the sheriff refused to make the trip, and appealed to the territorial authorities, while Stannard sent a runner up to district head-quarters for instructions. Each messenger had nearly ninety miles to go, so the race was about even, despite the fact that the sheriff's couriers were mounted and Stannard's runner went afoot. The uninitiated would have backed the riders to win, but Stannard backed the runner. The former were deputies and white; the latter was Apache-Mohave and brown. The former had a road and a roadside ranch or two, whereat they might and did obtain rest and refreshment. The redskin had only a trail, and no temptations. The Apache won out in a walk, literally a jog-trot. Luck as well as pluck favored the latter, for he found the department, as well as the district, commander at Sandy, and Stannard's instructions were started back that very morning. "Come up yourself to Prescott," they said. "Bring Harris and 'Tonio and such of 'Tonio's people as are necessary. Come prepared to stay a week at least, and be sure that Mrs. Stannard comes with you. Use your own judgment as to route and escort. Offer the sheriff the protection, but by no manner of means the command, of your party."
Having thus settled that question, the Gray Fox bethought him that it might be just as well to scoot for home, lest other councils should prevail about the capital. Such councils had prevailed, and in the recent past. He had still in mind the embarrassing episode of Willett's "instructed" descent upon Almy. In view of all the resultant complications he could not well forget it, and so, having finished his chat with Pelham, the tireless brigadier went bowling away by mountain road, the faithful Bright beside him, and was landed at his own door soon after eleven p.m. in abundant time to meet the situation on the morrow. Even in those days, when the stars went to the fighting force instead of the staff corps, it sometimes happened that a bureau officer had political wires to work.
And there were other reasons why he had come not a moment too soon. People had so little to talk about in those far Western wilds that they who had, as related, unexpectedly met our hostess and her guest in the darkness, and learned from them that they and Archer and Lilian had been "looking on for ever so long," must needs hurry back to the ballroom and tell it over and again. "Why didn't you bring them in?" "Why didn't you make them come in?" were the questions impulsively asked and not easily answered. They couldn't make them come in! Mrs. Crook said they were far too tired! They had only just come down to see how gay and pretty it all looked, and hear the music a minute, before going to bed! Now they were going to bed!
Then the people began looking for Willett and Evelyn Darrah. There were not a few who would have been glad to be able to tell them this piece of news, but the bliss was denied. There was nothing unusual in dancers going out in the starlight, as had Willett and Evelyn. There was something odd about their not returning, however, and Mrs. Darrah presently whisked the colonel home to see about it. Then they did not return. They found the two on the dark piazza, just home, as said the daughter. She had a headache and could dance no more, and now would say good-night, which she said, and that left the colonel alone with Willett. The mother followed the daughter in-doors to see if she knew of the arrival, and then to see that she did. The father felt his way for a moment for some means of getting rid, without rudeness, of this disturbing young man, and found that he could not. Willett had something on his mind and, as soon as he saw it, Darrah was scared. In evident mental excitement Willett had followed, closed the door after her, then, pulling nervously at his mustache, had turned on the putative head of the house. "Colonel Darrah," he began in a moment, "I have something I feel I must say to you——"