She had been a long time pushing close among the branches, reaching for the handsomest berries, some thirty paces from them, but never out of sight. They could see her dress among the leaves. Yes, they were all sure of that. He could not say how long it was before it occurred to them as strange that she should stand there so long in the toyon. Nor how long after that it dawned upon them that it was not she but her dress which they looked at hanging there in the chaparral, stirred by the wind. One of the women went to look, and found the Ward’s outer garment stuck shoulder high among the branches. They thought it a prank at first, bent back the boughs, peering and calling. Beyond the close outer wall of foliage the thicket was open enough for careful passage. They pushed into the thickest stems, suspecting her in ambush. One of the women some paces ahead, beginning to be annoyed, searching rapidly, spied something slipping from hollow shade to shade. She made an exclamation of discovery which changed to fright as a man shot out from the laurels in front of her and disappeared. They had all seen him crouching and running under the low branches up the slope.
They had spent little time after that looking about them. It was already dusk in the chaparral. The speaker had left the women behind, and come on rapidly to send some one younger on the darkling trail. He turned toward the girl’s father as he spoke, as being naturally the most interested. I could see Prassade’s face set and harden with the narrative, the line of his mouth thinning. Now it widened to let out two sharp questions.
“Did you see any sign of struggle or capture?”
“Not a leaf disturbed, not a twig broken, but indeed we went only a little way——”
“What sort of a man was it?”
“He was dressed as an Outlier.”
“Ah!” The trap of Prassade’s lips went shut again, he had got what he waited for.
“But you did not think him one?” It was Persilope took up the question.
“It was very dark under the laurels; he ran fast.”
“Was he Far-Folk?”