Jack’s voice died. He had run through his budget of news without broaching the subject that lay so near his heart. Alagwa did not help him. Silently she waited.
The night was wearing on. The moon was sinking into the west. Its fairy sheen lingered faintly on the trees and the grass and dusty road that stretched through the dew-wet fields like a band of silver. High above, the multitudinous stars blazed in the firmament. Silence reigned; no cry of bird or beast sounded through the night; even the sound of the horses’ hoofs was muffled in the soft dust. Like spirits the two rode on through the enchanted silence.
Then, in slow crescendo, the tinkle of a far-off brook blended softly into the beauty of the night, blended so softly that its music seemed the melody of tautened heart-strings. Slowly it grew till the stream glanced suddenly out, dancing in the last rays of the setting moon. Beyond it stretched an open space, floored with fallen leaves, ringed with tall saplings, silver edged, through whose leafless tops the stars shone faintly down.
The path to the ford was narrow. The two horses crowded into it, crushed their riders together, and at the touch Jack’s surcharged heart found vent. “Alagwa! Alagwa!” he cried, brokenly; and again, “Alagwa!”
The girl swayed toward him. Her eyes, wet with unshed tears, gleamed into his from beneath the dark masses of her tangled hair. Then, in a moment his arms were round her and her head lay heavy on his breast. The horses halted, bending their heads to the water that rippled about their feet.
Jack’s heart kindled in the swimming darkness. His pulse beat madly in his throat. “Alagwa!” he gasped. “Alagwa! Friend! Comrade! Wife! I love you so! I love you so!”
“And I love you!” Like a great organ note the girl’s voice echoed the avowal. “Ah! But you know it. You know I left you for your own sake—for your own sake——”
Closer and closer Jack drew her. The flood-gates of his speech were broken up. Words, undreamed before, leaped to his lips. “I loved you then,” he breathed. “I have loved you always. But the change from boy to man came too suddenly. I did not know. I did not understand. It took time—time and the touchstone of absence and peril and agony—to teach me that I was a fool and mad and blind.” He broke off, laughing with wonder. “Fool that I was to tell you that I was fond of you! Fool to prate of friendship! Fool to match stilted periods when my every fibre was thrilling, my every nerve quivering for you and you alone. I knew it and yet I knew it not. I did not dream that it was love that thrilled me. I did not know what love was. But now I know.”
The horses raised their heads, whinnying. Slowly, high-stepping, they splashed through the lambent waters of the ford and out upon the broad bank.
Jack leaped from the saddle and held up his arms for his bride. “We are far from camp,” he said, “and it is dangerous to approach it from this direction in the darkness. The horses are tired; the night is mild—and far spent. Come, dear! Come! a-la-ba-ma; here we rest.”