When they reached the house he led the way to the spring and motioning her to a seat under the shade of that giant elm, he drew the wills forth and handed them to her saying:—
"Here, Miss Estill, is what makes you the greatest heiress in this western land!" then, as she silently read them through and lifted a puzzled face to his, he handed her the Journal of Ivarene, and watched breathlessly, while she became flushed and pale by turns while perusing the faded and time-worn paper.
"Ah! poor, ill-fated Ivarene! what could have become of her and that helpless infant,—and brave Bruce too?" she cried, with tears in her eyes.
"The parents were murdered, no doubt, by that mad hunter, and the child was stolen and left at Estill's ranch along with a locket containing the name of Morelia and the pictures of Bruce and Ivarene. The mysterious kinsman buried on the hill-top was Olin Estill, who was only the mad hunter in disguise, who stole that blue-eyed, dark-haired daughter, named Morelia."
"Ah! you believe me to be the daughter of Bruce and his lovely wife!" said Mora, springing to her feet, while tears rained from her eyes, and her hands were wrung with deep emotion.
"Yes, I am certain that you are Morelia Walraven. I had suspected this from the hour that father called you Ivarene, and I set to work earnestly to recover the lost fortune, which I believed was buried near this spot. I worked faithfully, Miss Estill, to restore it all to you, knowing full well, all the while, that when found it would only widen the gulf between me and the cattle-king's daughter an hundred-fold. I will not dwell on the horrors of that fortune hunt, nor its perils, when I fought that gray-robed demon, which glared at you upon the grave-capped hill; how I struggled with that murderous spectre in the darkness of midnight, after being greeted in a noisome pit by a gigantic rattlesnake, which I slew as it writhed at my feet, with certain death in its fangs; nor the horror I felt when it was dead, at length, to grasp a human skull, that mocked me with eyeless sockets and grinning teeth when I snatched it from the buried cask—hoping I had found the casket of gems.
"But come with me, and I will show you that the Warlow honor and pride is no vain boast; that the poor planter's son can face danger and death for the sake of right alone."
Then, as she followed, pale and trembling, into the room, he threw back the lid of the treasure-chest, and the red gold, the glorious rays from frosty pearls, sparkling diamonds, blood-red rubies, and strange green emeralds mingled, in a dazzling glare, with the sheen of fire-opals and the glint of amethysts of purple, lilac, and rose.
"Here, Morelia Walraven, is your lost treasure, your million of gems and gold, your proud name and ancestral hall, which I restore," as he handed her the deed of Monteluma. "To-morrow I shall leave home and country, friends dearer than life, to prove—to prove to you I am not that vile thing which you take me for—a Fortune Hunter!"
She merely glanced at the pile of dazzling wealth; then raised her eyes that glittered through her tears like the turquois among the gold, and while he poured forth a torrent of hot words that seemed to come from his very soul, her color came and went until a burning blush spread over her face, and in a choking gasp she essayed to speak. When he had ceased, she gazed a moment up into his face, seamed and drawn in lines of white agony, then she cried out:—