“Indeed! Is it imperative you should go?”
The interrogatory was put in a tone that betrayed displeasure. A vision of a sinister kind always came before the mind of Louise Poindexter at mention of the lone hut on the Alamo.
And why? It had afforded her hospitality. One would suppose that her visit to it could scarce fail to be one of the pleasantest recollections of her life. And yet it was not!
“I have excellent reasons for going,” was the reply she received.
“Excellent reasons! Do you expect to meet any one there?”
“My follower Phelim—no one else. I hope the poor fellow is still above the grass. I sent him out about ten days ago—before there was any tidings of these Indian troubles.”
“Only Phelim you expect to meet? Is it true, Gerald? Dearest! do not deceive me! Only him?”
“Why do you ask the question, Louise?”
“I cannot tell you why. I should die of shame to speak my secret thoughts.”
“Do not fear to speak them! I could keep no secret from you—in truth I could not. So tell me what it is, love!”