All those wandering
months of his had been filled with dissatisfaction, yet he had been
too apathetic to understand himself. So he had not been much of
a person to try. Perhaps it had not been the blow to Rojas any
more than other things that had wrought some change in him.
His meeting with Thorne; the wonderful black eyes of a Spanish
girl; her appeal to him; the hate inspired by Rojas, and the rush,
the blow, the action; sight of Thorne and Mercedes hurrying safely away;
the girl's hand pressing his to her heaving breast; the sweet fire
of her kiss; the fact of her being alone with him, dependent upon him--
all these things Gale turned over and over in his mind, only to fail
of any definite conclusion as to which had affected him so remarkably,
or to tell what had really happened to him.
Had he fallen in love with Thorne's sweetheart? The idea came in
a flash. Was he, all in an instant, and by one of those incomprehensible
reversals of character, jealous of his friend? Dick was almost afraid
to look up at Mercedes. Still he forced himself to do so, and as it
chanced Mercedes was looking down at him. Somehow the light was
better, and he clearly saw her white face, her black and starry eyes,
her perfect mouth. With a quick, graceful impulsiveness she put
her hand upon his shoulder. Like her appearance, the action was
new, strange, striking to Gale; but it brought home suddenly to him
the nature of gratitude and affection in a girl of her blood.
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