"Do you know," said Stuart to her, "that when I heard you speak of Mowitza and her beauty and bravery, I never imagined you meant a four-footed animal?"
"What, then?"
"Well, I am afraid it was a nymph of the dusky tribe—a woman."
"Naturally!" was the one ironical and impatient word he received as answer, and scarcely noted.
He was talking with the others on multitudinous subjects, laughing, and trying to appear interested in jests that he scarcely heard, and all the while the hand he had offered to Genesee clenched and opened nervously in his seal glove.
Rachel watched him closely, for her instincts had anticipated something unusual from that meeting; the actual had altered all her preconceived fancies. More strong than ever was her conviction that those two were not strangers; but from Stuart's face or manner she could learn nothing. He was a much better actor than Genesee.
They did not see any more of him, yet he saw them; for from the shed, off several rods from the avenue, the trail to Hardy's ranch was in plain sight half its length. And the party, augmented by Lieutenant Murray, galloped past in all ignorance of moody eyes watching them from the side of a blanketed horse.
Out a half-mile, two of the riders halted a moment, while the others dashed on. The horses of those two moved close—close together. The arms of the man reached over to the woman, who leaned toward him. At that distance it looked like an embrace, though he was really but tying a loose scarf, and then they moved apart and went on over the snow after their comrades. A brutal oath burst from the lips of the man she had said was worse than few.
"If it is—I'll kill him this time! By God!—I'll kill him!"