Part 1, Chapter XXXVII.
Luke Ross’s Reception.
It was as if nature sorrowed o’er the scene, for as the encounter took place the rich, warm glow of the winter sunset passed away, and with the black clouds rising in the west came a chilling wind, and a few scattered drops of rain pattered amidst the fallen leaves where a short half-hour before there were the warmth and suggestions of spring. Now it was winter—bitter, depressing winter—all around, and in the hearts of those who stood there pale and grey as the gathering night.
Luke Ross was the first to recover himself as the giddy sensation passed away. The blood seemed to surge to his brain, and, with a cry of rage, he dashed at Cyril, and seized him by the throat.
“How dare you!” he cried. “You have insulted her.”
Almost as he spoke his hands dropped to his side, and he stood motionless, gazing, from one to the other, at Sage shrinking back, with her hands covering her face; and Cyril, who had now got the better of his surprise, standing in a menacing attitude, ready for his assailant.
For the moment, now, Luke seemed stunned; he could not realise the truth of what he saw. Either, he told himself, it was some mistake, or his eyes deceived him, and he had not seen Sage Portlock—the woman who had promised to be his wife—half embraced by Cyril Mallow, to whom she seemed to cling.
At last he found his power of speech return, but so unreal did everything seem that he hardly knew his own voice as he exclaimed—