"Then—what on earth can—we do?" Lucy said, with sudden break of spirit.
"I think we must wait. You wrote in your letter you'd stick to me—you'd—" He could not get the words out, the thought so overcame him.
"If it comes to a finish, I'll go with you," Lucy returned, with passion rising again.
"Oh! to ride off with you, Lucy—to have you all to myself—I daren't think of it. But that's only selfish."
"Maybe it's not so selfish as you believe. If you left the Ford—now—it'd break my heart. I'd never get over it."
"Lucy! You love me—that well?"
Then their lips met again and their hands locked, and they stood silent, straining toward each other. He held the slight form, so pliant, so responsive, so alive, close to him, and her face lay hidden on his breast; and he looked out over her head into the quivering moonlit shadows. The night was as still as one away on the desert far from the abode of men. It was more beautiful than any dream of a night in which he had wandered far into strange lands where wild horses were and forests lay black under moon-silvered peaks.
"We'll run—then—if it comes to a finish," said Slone, huskily. "But I'll wait. I'll stick it out here. I'll take what comes. So—maybe I'll not disgrace you more."
"I told Van I—I gloried in being hugged by you that day," she replied, and her little defiant laugh told what she thought of the alleged disgrace.
"You torment him," remonstrated Slone. "You set him against us. It would be better to keep still."