“Ugh!” Bright Wing ejaculated explosively—and was silent as a graven image.
“Come,” John Douglas said, plucking his son by the arm. “Things are not to my liking. You must take Violet and be off.”
Together the two passed into the cabin. The place was in semi-darkness. Ross heard a startled exclamation in the far corner of the room. Then he became aware that someone had arisen and was moving toward him. His eyes grew accustomed to the gloom; and he dimly perceived a sylphlike figure advancing toward the center of the floor. There it stopped. The murky light streaming in at the hole in the roof fell upon it.
Ross Douglas distinctly saw a halo of red-gold hair, the outlines of a fair, sweet face—and murmured tenderly:
“La Violette!”
“Fleet Foot!” was the joyful exclamation.
She stood leaning far forward, her hands clasped in front of her; but she did not offer to move nearer to him. Ross swept a hurried glance about the interior. He was alone with her; his father had left the cabin. The young man heard her quick respirations—saw her attitude of indecision—and opening his arms, he called softly:
“I love you, darling! Come to me!”
With a glad cry, she flew to him and nestled in his arms. He strained her to his breast—too happy to speak. At last he breathed into her ear the needless question: