“Of my wedding day,” she replied half-defiantly. “Surely you know that the priest has arrived. I am to be married to-morrow morning.”
“To-morrow morning!” I gasped.
“Yes, unless the world ends before then. Oh, Denzil, I have such wicked thoughts to-night! It is in my heart to wish that the Indians would take the fort—that something would happen before to-morrow.”
“Nothing will happen,” I said bitterly. “The fort can stand a siege of days and months. So you are determined to wed Griffith Hawke—to forget what we have been to each other in the past?”
“Denzil, you have no right,” she said sadly.
The words stung me, and I suddenly realized the depths of shame to which I had sunk. She saw her advantage, and pressed it.
“I have lingered too long,” she said. “I fear I shall be missed. This is our last meeting. Farewell, Denzil!”
“Farewell!” I answered bitterly.
She held out her hand, and I pressed it to my lips. It was like marble. Then she turned and glided away, and I heard her light footsteps receding among the trees.
The next instant I regretted that I had yielded and let her go. The thought that I might never see her again maddened me. Without realizing the recklessness and folly of it, I started in pursuit, calling her name in a hoarse whisper.