Suddenly a change passed over her. She was as one who had listened and had caught the note of song for which she waited; but her face clouded, and the rapt look gave way to an immediate distress. The fantasy of the wood-nymph underwent translation in Ingolby’s mind; she was now like a mortal, who, having been transformed, at immortal dictate was returning to mortal state again.
To heighten the illusion, he thought he heard faint singing in the depths of the wood. He put his hands to his ears for a moment, and took them away again to make sure that it was really singing and not his imagination; and when he saw Fleda’s face again, there was fresh evidence that his senses had not deceived him. After all, it was not strange that some one should be singing in that deepest wood beyond.
Now Fleda moved forward towards where he stood, quickening her footsteps as though remembering something she must do. He stepped out into the path and came to meet her. She heard his footsteps, saw him, and stood still abruptly.
She did not make a sound, but a hand went to her bosom quickly, as though to quiet her heart or to steady herself. He had broken suddenly upon her intent thoughts, he had startled her as she had been seldom startled, for all her childhood training had been towards self-possession before surprise and danger.
“This is not your side of the Sagalac,” she said with a half-smile, regaining composure.
“That is in dispute,” he answered gaily. “I want to belong to both sides of the Sagalac, I want both sides to belong to each other so that either side shall not be my side or your side, or—”
“Or Monsieur Felix Marchand’s side,” she interrupted meaningly.
“Oh, he’s on the outside!” snapped the fighter, with a hardening mouth.
She did not reply at once, but put her hat on, and tied the ribbons loosely under her chin, looking thoughtfully into the distance.
“Is that the Western slang for saying he belongs nowhere?” she asked.