There was a rush at him, into arms which made them think of a mountain bear, for he gathered them to his heart, and the breath of them went out. In the glare of the wide open door a girl stood white-faced with tragedy. A man leaped to the back of a horse and the swaying, struggling group were baptized in a shower of flying gravel. Shots and shouts behind and the scud of a flying horse into the night.
“You damned traitor!” Solomon dropped the two men in the paralysis of the bayonet thrust that sank into his back.
He quivered to the death stroke and turned beseechingly to the man: “Shoot me, quick, brother—in the heart—in the breast—I’m no traitor, no Judas—she’ll say I ain’t.” The man cocked his rifle but the great head with the shock of long hair had gone down and the girl stood between them.
“No—no—not Judas—she’ll swear I ain’t.”
She did not seem to notice them—her beautiful head was turned side-wise listening to the vanishing rhythm of flying hoof beats. “O, Solomon, Solomon; will they catch him?”
“Whut—an’ him on Ajax? Ho-ho-oh,” and the great chest, schooled to the mountain halloo, echoed it for the last time, like the sound of thunder among the hollow gorges of the hills.
Then joy, great, radiant joy in her face, and with the returning glory of it all—tenderness—tenderness and sorrow for him. “Can I—O, Solomon—can I do anything for you?” She sat by him, her hand on the sweat-damp brow.
“You mou’t—kiss—me ag’in—an’ ef—you—happen to see—little Dinah Mariah—”
What doth it mean and whither tendeth,