"Kenny! Kenny!" she cried out. "It's I—Viola!"
There was a moment's silence.
"My God! You? Viola?" came in suppressed, horrified tones from the darkness. "Drop down,—drop to the ground! They may begin firing at me. You—"
"Firing at you?" she cried, shakily. "What on earth are you talking about? There's—there's no one here. I am all alone. I did it. I'm the ghost. It was all in fun. I didn't dream—"
"Do as I tell you!" he called out sharply. "There is a pack of ruffians—"
"Pack your granny!" she cried, with a shrill laugh. "I tell you I am all alone. My goodness, what on earth did Zachariah think was after him? A regiment of soldiers?"
As he came quickly toward her she shrank back, seized by a strange, inexplicable panic. He loomed above her in the darkness as she half-crouched against the fence. For a few seconds he stood looking down at her, breathing sharply. She heard something drop at his feet, and then both his hands gripped her shoulders, drawing her roughly up to him.
"Oh-h! Wh-what are you doing?" she gasped as his arm went around her. That arm of steel drew her so close and held her so tightly to his breast that she could feel the tremendous thumping of his heart. She felt herself trembling—trembling all over; the light in the window up beyond seemed to draw nearer, swelling to vast proportions as it bore down upon her. She closed her eyes. What was happening to her,—what was causing this strange languor, this queer sensation as of falling?
As abruptly as he had clasped her to him, he released her, springing back with a muttered execration. She tottered dizzily, and involuntarily reached out to clutch his arm for support. He shook her hand off.
"What is the matter, Kenny?" she murmured, hazily.