From the forest limit sped Menotah, with cloak drawn over her hair, hurrying for the shelter of the fort. She held a rough willow box, which she anxiously opened when she reached the clearing. The electric light darted down and converted the contents into a liquid flood of red light. From side to side the breathless life streamed, crossing and recrossing in waving threads of gold. This was safe, so she darted across the open, shrank from a descending flame, which hissed between her body and the door, then entered boldly, though half dazed and breathing quickly.
Sprawling across the table, his huge head lying upon his hands, she beheld the Chief Factor, mumbling in incoherent phrases. Opposite, bolt upright, balanced on an insecure box and sucking at an empty pipe, appeared Dave Spencer, howling in his coarse voice some unintelligible song and beating time with an empty bottle which dribbled down his arm. The girl's bright eyes passed from one to the other, while presently she began to laugh softly at the two unmeaning comedians.
Lamont, in the corner, with elbows upon knees and face hidden between his hands, she did not at first perceive. It seemed to him as though he had suddenly been forced off his own circle of life and been brought into contact with beings unknown, of different form and custom. His present environment was unnatural and visionary. Even Dave's mechanical expletives were insufficient to dispel the illusion. When the girl appeared, like a visible portion of the surrounding silence, he regarded her as some fresh vagary of Nature, or creation of the storm. He blinked his eyes, with the dim idea of seeing her disappear from vision. But when the cloak fell back and the softly cut features of Menotah were upraised in the blue light, he reflected,—first, on Sinclair's poor body, rotting in some thick tangle of bush; then on Muskwah, full of life, hope and vengeance.
When she laughed, he started at the sound of contrast, and overturned the cracked glass beside him. Then he rose, crushed the broken fragments, and came towards the girl with a low-toned question on his lips, 'Why are you here?'
She looked up gladly. Then he noticed her fingers closing round the willow box.
'I was in the forest when the fire was cast at my head, so I hastened here.'
The vagrant thoughts fled off on another tack. He kept his eyes fixed upon the girl's countenance. She drew back frightened.
'Your eyes are still and cold. Your lips move, yet there is no word-sound. You did not look at me so—in the forest, when the white moon peeped over the ledges.'
He cast off the glamour of illusion, and asked again, 'Why have you come?'
'I told you,' said Menotah, pettishly. 'You did not attend, for you have been drinking the strong waters—'