It was exactly as though the man called to her, and she
responded. A dream, or what, it brought her courage, hope.
He would come; she had faith in that--and he would find she had fought
to the end, even if he came too late. She buried her face in her
hands, stifling a sob that shook her body, yet when she lifted the head
again, there was no glimmer of tears in her eyes, and her cheeks were
crimson. She waited motionless, scarcely seeming to breathe--the
statue of a woman at bay.
All this was but for a moment, a moment of swift thought, of equally
swift decision. The next Cavendish stood beside her, grasping the
shotgun, no longer a victim of weakness, his eyes meeting hers eagerly.
"I could only find twelve cartridges," he exclaimed, "but I know how to
use those."
He took a step forward, and held out his hand.
"Forgive me, Miss Donovan," he pleaded. "Really I do not know what
makes me like that, but you would make a man out of anybody."
Her firm, slim fingers met his eagerly, her eyes instantly glowing in
appreciation.
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