In his momentary
exaltation it even struck him that it was a duty, no less sacred, no
less unselfish than the one to which he had devoted his life. The light
was growing stronger; he could hear voices in the nearest picket line,
and the sound of a cough in the invading mist. He made a hurried sign to
the on-coming figure to follow him, ran ahead, and halted at last in
the cover of a hackmatack bush. Still gazing forward over the marsh,
he stealthily held out his hand behind him as the rustling skirt came
nearer. At last his hand was touched--but even at that touch he started
and turned quickly.
It was not his wife, but Rose!--her mulatto double! Her face was rigid
with fright, her beady eyes staring in their china sockets, her white
teeth chattering. Yet she would have spoken.
"Hush!" he said, clutching her hand, in a fierce whisper. "Not a word!"
She was holding something white in her fingers; he snatched it quickly.
It was a note from his wife--not in the disguised hand of her first
warning, but in one that he remembered as if it were a voice from their
past.
"Forgive me for disobeying you to save you from capture, disgrace, or
death--which would have come to you where you were going! I have taken
Rose's pass.
Pages:
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183