A SHOT.
‘Of all things I could have desired—the best!’ exclaimed Martin Babb as Eve came from the cover of the wood upon the rocky floor. She was out of breath, and could not speak. She put both hands on her breast to control her breathing and quiet her throbbing heart.
Martin drew one foot over the other, poising it on the toe, and allowed the yellow firelight to play over his handsome face and fine form. The appreciative eye was there. ‘Lovelier than ever!’ exclaimed Martin. ‘Preciosa come to the forest to Alonzo, not Alonzo to Preciosa.’
The forest green!
Where warm the summer sheen;
And echo calls,
And calls—through leafy halls.
Hurrah for the life ‘neath the greenwood tree!
My horn and my dogs and my gun for me!
Trarah! Trarah! Trarah!’
He sang the first verse of the gipsy chorus with rich tones. He had a beautiful voice, and he knew it.
The song had given her time to obtain breath, and she said, ‘Oh, Martin, you must go—you must indeed!’