But she burst into tears and clung to him, sobbing:
“Don’t go—don’t go, Ross! For some reason I feel—that you will not come back—to me, that I shall—shall be forced to—to marry George Hilliard.”
“There—there, child!” he interrupted soothingly. “Now dry your eyes and kiss me farewell. Indeed I am tarrying too long.”
She drew herself erect and, dashing aside the tears that blinded her, said icily:
“In spite of all I have said and done, you’re going, are you?”
“I’ve told you over and over that I must go, Amy,” he replied sadly.
“Then go!” she cried angrily. “It shows how much you think of me—to leave me here in a hell upon earth—without a mother to sympathize with me or advise me. I will marry George Hilliard at once—and have done with it.”
“Amy! Amy!” he whispered reprovingly. “You don’t mean that; you’re angry. Wait——”
The sentence was left unfinished. It was cut short with a suddenness that almost took away Douglas’s breath. By an unseen and unexpected power, the lovers were caught and violently flung apart. Two armed men stood between them. One was a tall, raw-boned man whose hatchet face was outlined by a mane of iron-gray hair. The other was younger—short, thick-set, and red-faced.
The older man’s countenance was livid with rage. His lips worked—but no words came forth. At last he managed to articulate: