Her gray eyes never left mine; I stepped forward; she gave a little gasp as I took her hand.
"Who is this young man?" said the Weasel, mildly. "He is not Captain Butler, dear—or my memory fails—ay," he babbled on, "it fails me strangely now, and I had best sit quiet while younger heads think for me. Yet, this young man is not Captain Butler, dear?"
"No, father."
In the silence I heard my heart beat heavily. A minute passed; the Weasel peered at me with his dim eyes and clasped his daughter's hand closely.
"Silver Heels! Silver Heels!" I cried, with a sob.
"Do you want me—now?" she whispered.
I caught her fiercely in my arms; she hung to me with closed eyes and every limb a-tremble.
And, as I stood there, with my arms around her, and her face against mine, far away I heard the measured gallop of a horse on the highway, nearer, nearer, turning now close outside the house, and now thundering up to the porch.
Instantly Jack Mount glided from the room; Foxcroft, listening, silently drew his pistol; I reached out for my rifle which leaned against the chair, and, striking the butt heavily against the floor, glanced at the pan. The rifle had primed itself.
Then I turned smiling to Silver Heels.