She started and glanced up, taking the card which he handed her with a little surprise at his doubting air. His knowledge of the proprieties did not extend to a recognition of the name upon the pasteboard—it might be that of the Embassador of Spain—he did not know—the gentleman who gave it looked passable, certainly. Mechanically, for she had not shaken off the spell which the poem had wrought on her, she read:
"Golden Arrow."
Confused by the unknown name, the footman had failed to close the door into the apartment which he entered, and the audacious stranger, in the hall, had obeyed an irresistible impulse to approach the end of the hall, and look after the fate of his card. He had a full view of the maiden dreaming in the "violet-lined" chair; had noted the rich clearness of her rounded cheek, the glossy smoothness of her hair, the tremulous, sorrowful depression of the dark eyelashes and red lips; had absorbed with an eager glance the grace of her drapery, the elegance of her surroundings—and now, he watched her, startled from her reverie, listlessly look at the card, turn red and pale, and throw a wild, bewildered look toward the entrance where he stood.
"Let him come in," she said, rising to her feet.
The footman bowed, and retiring, sent the visitor in. As he came forward, she stood, slightly leaning forward, pale as death, doubt, fear and startled surprise in face and attitude, and a look of bewilderment over all.
A moment the two stood looking full into each other's eyes; then the stranger smiled, and she cried:
"Nat!"
A mutual impulse, such as thrills from breast to breast of man and woman like an electric shock, moved them both. He held out his arms appealingly, but not sooner than she sprung forward to be clasped in them. They were alive, face to face, heart to heart—that was enough.
For a few moments this blissful truth was all they cared to realize. Presently they stood apart, wondering at their own impulses, their own joy. If Elizabeth—we must call her Elizabeth to the end of the chapter—had been beautiful before, she was radiant now. Her clear, dark complexion and expressive features were made for just such light and color as filled them now. Her lover gazed upon her in rapture, and her own timid glance sought to repay his admiration in kind.
This was indeed Nat Wolfe, the hunter of the plain, towering in frame, erect in carriage, dashing and chivalrous in manner—this his frank smile and kindling eye; but the roughness of his wild life was smoothed away. The gleaming rifle, frightful knife and hunter's frock were exchanged for a civilized dress, at which the scrupulous footman at the door could not have carped. Only one peculiarity of his adventurous life was retained—he wore that long, bright hair of his as loosely as ever. It streamed about his neck in a fashion unknown to Broadway; but it accorded so well with his unusual hight and manly bearing that it gave him the dignity of the famous men of old.