So deeply buried was he in thought that he did not hear the soft footfall nor the faint rustle as Lola seated herself beside him. Her large, dark eyes were filled with a gentle light foreign to her fiery, passionate nature, and her cheek glowed with the swift flow of blood.
As Campbell, aroused by that strange consciousness one feels when being fixedly gazed upon, raised his eyes, his face darkened with a frown. In a harsh tone he uttered:
“Well, I am waiting—proceed. Of course you come here to tell me some frightful story of how I have wronged you, possibly through my great-grandchildren, or something of that sort, and that you have sworn deadly vengeance against me and mine. Proceed—but for pity’s sake, cut it short.”
“You wrong me, Mr. Campbell,” and Lola’s voice sounded low and soft. “I am no enemy of yours—I would be your friend, if you would permit.”
“My friend—and his daughter?”
“I often think that I am not his daughter—that he is mad—a monomaniac, who does not know what he does or says. I overheard what he told you, for I feared that he meant to kill you, and I resolved to prevent that, if it cost my own life. It is the same story, almost word for word, that he has told me scores of times. But—whether that is true or not—I am not your enemy, since seeing you. Before, I hated you, because he taught me to do so. He made me believe that all men were evil, treacherous beings, but—I don’t think you are,” and Lola drooped her eyes before the steady gaze of the young hunter.
“What is your object in telling me this?” he asked, slowly.
“To prove to you that I am a friend, not an enemy, as you seemed to regard me.”
“Will you prove this? You can, if you wish. Will you do it?” added Campbell, with ill-suppressed eagerness.
“How can I?” softly, with a quick glance at him.