“The sun’s come out,” cried Sylvie.
“Yes, it’s splendidly bright. There’s a clean slit in the sky; there at the western edge the dark gray cap is being lifted inch by inch, the way a boy lifts his cap to see the butterfly he’s caught. All’s gold behind it, Sylvie, burning gold. The rocks are like bright copper. And the pines, they’re incandescent, phosphorescent green—”
“If I could only see it!”
Down near the pines a tall, still figure stood watching them. It was Pete, and his smile, usually so frank and sweet, had now a sardonic twist. As they came down out of their sun into his shadow, he spoke with a drag to his syllables.
“Hullo,” he said. “That was a narrow escape you had, you two!”
The voice might have been a pistol-shot for the start it gave to Hugh.
“Why, it’s Pete. We must be late, Pete,” Sylvie called joyously. “Did you see how Hugh saved my life? He threw himself down before the rock and stopped it. He’s hurt his poor arm. The great stone was right on top of us, and he threw me out of the way and set his own strength against it. I couldn’t see the rock, Pete, but it felt like a mountain.”
“It was big enough to smash you both,” said Pete.
He looked at Hugh, whose eyes glared in a strained, shamed face. The older man’s fingers worked nervously; he opened his lips and closed them again. It was easy to understand the travail of his mind, unwilling to forego the imaginary bit of heroism, and yet abashed by the boy’s awareness of the lie.
Pete gave one short laugh; then, springing suddenly across a fallen tree that separated them, he caught Sylvie up into his arms.