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Harte, Bret, 1836-1902

"Frontier Stories"

He stopped irresolutely, and
cast a last, long, half-despairing look around him. Hitherto he had
given that part of the wood nearest the plain his greatest attention.
His glance now sought its darker recesses. Suddenly he became
breathless. Was it a beam of sunlight that had pierced the groined roof
above, and now rested against the trunk of one of the dimmer, more
secluded giants? No, it was moving; even as he gazed it slipped away,
glanced against another tree, passed across one of the vaulted aisles,
and then was lost again. Brief as was the glimpse, he was not
mistaken--it was the figure of a woman.
In another moment he was on her track, and soon had the satisfaction of
seeing her reappear at a lesser distance. But the continual
intervention of the massive trunks made the chase by no means an easy
one, and as he could not keep her always in sight he was unable to
follow or understand the one intelligent direction which she seemed to
invariably keep. Nevertheless, he gained upon her breathlessly, and,
thanks to the bark-strewn floor, noiselessly.


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