CHAPTER VIII.
IN THE DARK.
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There is not one upon life’s weariest way, Who is weary as I am weary of all but death. Swinburne. |
The grim sentinels by the pathway, who had been so reluctant to let Cecil pass the day before, were still more reluctant this evening. One of them planted himself in the trail directly in front of Cecil, and did not offer to let him go on, but stood sullenly blocking the way. Cecil touched the warrior’s arm and bade him stand aside. For an instant it seemed that he would refuse, but his superstitious respect for the white tomanowos overcame his obstinacy,—and he stepped unwillingly back.
But as Cecil went on he felt, and felt rightly, that they would not let him pass again,—that the last act, be it what it might, in his love drama, was drawing to a close.
A few moments’ walk, and he saw in the dark the little figure awaiting him under the trees. She came slowly forward to meet him. He saw that her face was very pale, her eyes large and full of woe. She gave him her hands; they felt like ice. He bent over her and kissed her with quivering lips.
“Poor child,” he said, putting his arms around her slender form and drawing it close in his embrace, 211 “how can I ever tell you what I have to tell you to-night!”
She did not respond to his caress. At length, looking up in a lifeless, stricken way, she spoke in a mechanical voice, a voice that did not sound like her own,—
“I know it already. My father came and told me that to-morrow I must—” She shuddered; her voice broke; then she threw her arms around his neck and clung to him passionately. “But they can never tear me away from you; never, never!”