He
dropped the stool and started toward her, his arms extended to catch her
swaying form. The look of the dying was in her eyes; she seemed to be
crumpling before him.
He reached her in time, his strong arms grasping the frail, bent figure
as it sank to the floor. As he lifted her bodily from her feet, intent
upon carrying her to the open air, her bony fingers sank into his arm
with the grip of death, and--could he believe his ears!--a low, mocking
laugh came from her lips.
Down where the pebbly house-yard merged into the mossy banks, Mr. Hobbs
sat tight, still staring with gloomy eyes at the dark little hut up the
glen. His sturdy knees were pressing the skirts of the saddle with a
firmness that left no room for doubt as to the tension his nerves were
under. Now and then he murmured "My word!" but in what connection it is
doubtful if even he could tell. A quarter of an hour had passed since
King disappeared through the doorway: Mr. Hobbs was getting nervous.
The shiftless, lanky goose-herd came forth in time, and lazily drove his
scattered flock off into the lower glen.
The horses were becoming impatient. To his extreme discomfort, not to
say apprehension, they were constantly pricking their ears forward and
snorting in the direction of the hovel; a very puzzling circumstance,
thought Mr.
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