"A white woman!" muttered the man, lost in amazement.
Natalie, her head slightly averted, sat her horse like a carven woman.
Fear grew apace with wonder in Mabyn's eyes; his breath quickened; he ceaselessly passed his hand in front of his face. "Natalie!" he muttered, still in the toneless voice of one who sleeps. "Oh, my God! It's Natalie!"
Grasping the edge of the bench, he pulled himself to his feet; and took a few uncertain steps toward her. He put out his hand fearfully.
Natalie sharply reined back her horse. "Don't touch me!" she said.
It broke the spell that held him—but not wholly. His hands dropped to his sides; a saner light appeared in his eyes; and he looked all around, as if to convince himself of the realness of his surroundings. On Garth his eyes lingered stupidly for a moment; then impatiently returned to Natalie.
"If it's you, how did you get here?" he asked quietly enough—still bemused.
"I came over the prairie, as every one comes," she said sharply.
Mabyn frowned. "I'm wide awake," he said irritably. "I know where I am. I fell asleep on the bench half an hour ago—but," his voice deepened and swelled on the note of awe, "you, Natalie! You or your wraith! I—I can't take it in!" The faded eyes bolted, and swept wearily and unseeingly over the lake.
Natalie winced every time he spoke her name. "Try to collect yourself," she said coldly. "There is no doubt of its being I."