“Oh, well, you won’t? Never mind, now. There’s a time coming when you’ll not be so coy, and when I shan’t any longer kneel supplicating you. For know, Nell, you’re completely in my power, and I can command, do with you what I will. I don’t intend any harm, nor mean to be at all unkind. It’ll be your own fault if you force me to harshness. And knowing that, why shouldn’t there be truce between us? What’s the use of fretting about Clancy? He’s dead as a door nail, and your lamenting won’t bring him to life again. Better take things as they are, and cheer up. If you’ve lost one sweetheart, there’s another left, who loves you more than ever did he. I do, Helen Armstrong; by God, I do!”
The ruffian gives emphasis to his profane assertion, by bending before her, and laying his hand upon his heart.
Neither his speech nor attitude moves her. She lies as ever, still, silent. Wrapped in the Mexican blanket—whose pattern of Aztec design bears striking resemblance to the hieroglyphs of Egypt—this closed and corded round her figure, she might easily be mistaken for a mummy, one of Pharaoh’s daughters taken out of the sarcophagus in which for centuries she has slept. Alone, the face with its soft white skin, negatives the comparison: though it appears bloodless, too. The eyes tell nought; their lids are closed, the long dark lashes alone showing in crescent curves. With difficulty could one tell whether she be asleep, or dead.
Richard Darke does not suppose she is either; and, incensed at receiving no reply, again apostrophises her in tone more spiteful than ever. He has lost control of his temper, and now talks unfeelingly, brutally, profanely.
“Damn you!” he cries. “Keep your tongue in your teeth, if you like. Ere long I’ll find a way to make it wag; when we’re man and wife, as we shall soon be—after a fashion. A good one, too, practised here upon the prairies of Texas. Just the place for a bridal, such as ours is to be. The nuptial knot tied, according to canons of our own choice, needing no sanction of church, or palaver of priests, to make it binding.”
The ruffian pauses in his ribald speech. Not that he has yet sated his vengeance, for he intends continuing the torture of his victim unable to resist. He has driven the arrow deep into her heart, and leaves it to rankle there.
For a time he is silent, as if enjoying his triumph—the expression on his countenance truly satanic. It is seen suddenly to change, apprehension taking its place, succeeded by fear.
The cause: sounds coming from the other side of the tree; human voices!
Not those of Bosley, or his captive; but of strange men speaking excitedly!
Quick parting from his captive, and gliding up to the trunk, he looks cautiously around it.