I continued my story of our pursuit,—the lulling beat of the stream undertoning my words in the still twilight. When I came to that last wild burst of Fulano, and told how his heroic charge had fulfilled his faithful ardor of the day, she sprang up, thrilled out of all weariness, and ran to the noble fellow, where he was taking his dainty banquet by the brookside.
She flung her arms around his neck and rested her head upon his shoulder. Locks of her black hair, escaping into curls, mingled with his mane.
Presently Miss Clitheroe seemed to feel a maidenly consciousness that her caresses of the horse might remind the horse’s master that he was not unworthy of a like reward. She returned to my friend. He was stirring a little in pain. She busied herself about him tenderly, and yet with a certain distance of manner, building a wall of delicate decorum between him and herself. Indeed, from the beginning of our acquaintance yesterday, and now in this meeting of to-day, she had drawn apart from Brent, and frankly approached me. Her fine instinct knew the brother from the lover.
Armstrong presently rode out again.
When he saw his brother’s sorrel horse feeding with the others, he wept like a child.
We two, the lady and I, were greatly touched.
“I’ve got a daughter myself, to home to the Umpqua,” said Armstrong, turning to Miss Clitheroe; “jest about your settin’ up, and jest about as many corn shuckins old. Ellen is her name.”
“Ellen is my name.”
“That’s pretty” (pooty he pronounced it). “Well, I’ll stand father to you, just as ef you was my own gal. I know what a gal in trouble wants more ’n young fellows can.”
Ellen Clitheroe gave her hand to Armstrong in frank acceptance of his offer. He became the paternal element in our party,—he protecting her and she humanizing him.