Another instant, and she had vanished from his sight like a ghost.
Curses loud and deep burst in a torrent from Squire Moulton’s foaming lips, as, painfully arising, he made his way from the place.
Scarcely had he stepped outside the circle, when a sight met his eyes which caused him to totter back, half fainting and gasping for breath.
CHAPTER VIII.
“LOOK TO IT.”
Half crouching, half lying among the tall grass just outside the circle of arbor vitæ, was a large, swarthy-looking man, his eyes and mouth agape with astonishment at the wondrous story he had just heard rehearsed.
A close observer might have noticed his paleness and agitation. Evidently something in the tale had moved him deeply, for great beads of perspiration stood on his forehead, from which his cap was pushed back, and the hand he raised to wipe his brow shook like a reed.
He might have been a fine-looking man, for his face was highly intelligent in expression, and his form was tall, straight, and well developed. But clad in his soiled and much-worn garments, with face deeply bronzed, locks uncombed, and beard unshaven, he was but a sorry-looking object. There was a roughness about him, too, and a fierceness in the gaze of his eye as he looked upon the terror-stricken squire, which were enough in themselves, coming as he did unexpectedly upon him, to drive the color from his face and lips.
The stranger was the first to recover his self-possession, and assuming a sneering, half defiant air, while at the same time he seemed to enjoy Squire Moulton’s fright, said:
“Well, squire, I must say she’s a pretty spunky sort of a woman, that sister of yourn!”
“Who are you—how long have you been here—did you hear——” incoherently gasped the startled villain.