“Yet, in spite of one’s self,” Phil answered, in a hesitating voice, “the sacrifice of first love may be made to a later one—it sometimes happens.”
“It happens every day,” said Ethel; “money talks!”
Phil let his nosegay of wild-flowers fall behind him to the ground.
“I won’t keep you, Monsieur Phil,” she said, believing that she was preventing him from taking part in the hallali. “Go, now!” she continued pleasantly, “they’re only waiting for you to cut the doe’s throat—listen, they’re sounding the death!”
Indeed, the forest near them was full of a rising tumult; lackeys were carrying torches; cries and calls were heard, and the barking of the hounds grew savage. The poor doe had come back to her sleeping-place to die. There was despair in her gasp; and the flaring horns set up the triumphal song of the hallali.
“Really, Phil, I do not wish to deprive you of such pleasure. Go. But you had something in your hand just now—some flowers, I think. Put them on this bench. You will find them when you return.”
“I have nothing, Miss Ethel,” Phil answered, showing his empty hands.
Every word Ethel had said wounded him cruelly, though he felt sure she knew nothing of his relations with Helia. It seemed to him they applied to his own troubles. They thrilled him to the bottom of his heart.
He plunged into the night of the forest, toward the blood-red glow lighting up the slaughter.