Volume Three—Chapter Thirteen.
A Spy in Ambush.
You have seen a proud bird, whose wing has been broken by the fatal bullet, drop helpless to the earth?
So fell the heart of Judith Jessuron from the high confidence that but the moment before had been buoying it up.
The sight of Kate Vaughan coming up the mountain path at once robbed it of exultation—even of contentment.
What errand could the young Creole have up there, unless that of an assignation? And with whom, but the man who was so mysteriously missing?
Her surreptitious departure from the dwelling—the time chosen, when Smythje was out of the way—her quick gait and backward glances as she stole through the shrubbery: all indicated a fear of being seen and followed.
And why should she fear either, if bent upon an ordinary errand? Mr Smythje was not her father, nor, as yet, her husband. Why should she care to conceal her intentions from him: unless indeed they were clandestine, and pointing to that very purpose which the jealous Jewess had conjectured—a rendezvous with Herbert Vaughan?
Judith felt convinced of it—so fully that, as soon as she saw the young Creole fairly started up the sloping path, she glided to the rear edge of the platform, and looked down, expecting to see the other party to the assignation.
True, she saw no one; but this did little to still the agitation now vibrating through every nerve of her body. He was not in sight, but that signified not. Perhaps he was at that moment within hearing, and might be seen, but for the forest screen that covered the façade of the mountain?