“You’re cold,” he said, as he placed his arm about her, and there was something very far removed from political economy in the timbre of his voice.
“I’m a little chilly,” she admitted. “I had to swim my horse across the river to-day—he got into a deep spot—and I got wet.” She congratulated herself that she had made a very clever explanation.
He put his coat about her shoulders and drew it tight. Then he sat beside her in silence. There were many things he could have said, but this seemed to be neither the time nor the place. Grant was not Transley. He had for this girl a delicate consideration which Transley’s nature could never know. Grant was a thinker—Transley a doer. Grant knew that the charm which enveloped him in this girl’s presence was the perfectly natural product of a set of conditions. He was worldly-wise enough to suspect that Zen also felt that charm. It was as natural as the bursting of a seed in moist soil; as natural as the unfolding of a rose in warm air....
Presently he felt her head rest against his shoulder. He looked down upon her in awed delight. Her eyes had closed; her lips were smiling faintly; her figure had relaxed. He could feel her warm breath upon his face. He could have touched her lips with his.
Slowly the moon traced its long arc in the heavens.
CHAPTER VIII
Just as the first flush of dawn mellowed the East Grant heard the pounding of horses’ feet and the sound of voices borne across the valley. They rapidly approached; he could tell by the hard pounding of the hoofs that they were on a trail which he took to be the one he had followed before he met Zen. It passed possibly a hundred yards to the left. He must in some way make his presence known.
The girl had slept soundly, almost without stirring. Now he must wake her. He shook her gently, and called her name; her eyes opened; he could see them, strange and wondering, in the thin grey light. Then, with a sudden start, she was quite awake.
“I have been sleeping!” she exclaimed, reproachfully. “You let me sleep!”