“I think,” said Dick, whose deep voice was trembling, “that you had better go back to your manhunting, and not insult people who have done you no harm.”
“I have a right to interfere on behalf of this lady. I love her.”
“So do I,” said Dick in a low voice.
“You!”
“And Dick has more right to say so than you,” broke in Freda’s clear voice, shaking with feeling, “for I love him!”
Dick pressed her arm against his side, but he did not speak. Neither did John Thurley, but he reeled back a step, as if he had received a blow. Then, with a shrug of the shoulders which was meant to be contemptuous, but which was only crestfallen and disgusted, he turned away and left the young fellow with Freda, while he rejoined the search-party.
Neither Dick nor his companion spoke for some minutes. In all the misery of this strange situation, with the messengers of the law hunting high and low around them for a man who had incurred the penalty of death, the new and strange delight each felt of touching a loving hand, deadened the anxiety and the pain. Each felt the intoxication of the knowledge that each was loved. Dick spoke first; he looked down into the girl’s face and said gently:
“I am afraid you are cold, dear.”
She shook her head.
“No, no, no,” she whispered, “if they hear you say that, they will take me away.”