“We can't help being worried. Suppose his following is much larger than you think. They are a rough, lawless crowd, and—”
“Ninety-five per cent, of the men here are decent. That's the only comfort I can give you.” He smiled his whimsical smile. “I think you will find that you will be courted in the regular, old-fashioned way, and proposed to with as much solemnity and uncertainty as if you were back at home, and it will be left for you to choose your own husband. We have two ministers of the gospel here, you know. I predict some rather violent courtships, and perhaps a few ill-advised marriages, but you may rest assured that no man is going to claim you until you claim him.”
He was looking straight into her eyes. She felt the blood mounting to her cheek,—and was conscious of a strange, delicious sensation as of peril stealing over her.
“You are most reassuring,” she managed to say, scarcely above a whisper, and then paused expectant.
Afterwards she was shamed by the exquisite pain of anticipation that had coursed through her in that moment of waiting. She never could quite account for the temporary weakness that assailed her and left her mute and helpless under the spell of his eyes. She only knew that she waited expectant,—for something that never came! What she might have said in response, what she might have done if he had uttered the words she was prepared to hear, she did not care to contemplate, even in the privacy of her own thoughts. She only knew that she was ashamed of the thrill that went over her and strangely bitter toward him for being the cause of it. She would not admit to herself that disappointment had anything to do with it,—for she found herself arguing, nothing could have been more distressing than to rebuff him when he seemed so eager to help her in her plans for Easter Sunday.
The fact remains, however, that Percival held his tongue, and she never quite understood why he did.
The time and the place of this encounter invited confession. There was a full moon in the heavens, the night was still, the air crisp with the tang of October in the north,—and they were alone in the shadow of the “tabernacle.” Lights gleamed in the little windows that stretched to the right and left of them. Far off somewhere in the dark, an unseen musician was gently thrumming a fandango on his Spanish guitar. She had been on her way home from Careni-Amori's cabin, where she had gained the prima-donna's promise to sing, when she saw him, walking slowly across the “Green.” His hands were clasped behind his back, his head was bent. She experienced a sudden rush of pity for him,—she knew not why, except that he looked lonely and forgotten. It was she who turned aside from her course and went out across the Green to join him.
“You are most reassuring,” she had said. The dusky light of the moon fell full upon her upturned face; her shadowy, limpid eyes were looking straight into his; enchantment charged the air with its soft and languorous breath,—and yet he looked away!
After a moment he spoke. His voice was steady and,—to her,—almost sardonic.
“The day of the cave-man is past. Likewise the cannibal. I think I can promise that you will neither be beaten nor eaten,—but you do run a little risk in being abroad on such a night as this,—and alone.”