She appreciates your anxiety, and, knowing that you
could not see her, told me to give you this." He handed Low the ring
and the letter.
The climax had been forced, and, it must be confessed, was by no means
the one Mr. Wynn had fully arranged in his own inner consciousness. He
had intended to take an ostentatious leave of Low in the bar-room,
deliver the letter with archness, and escape before a possible
explosion. He consequently backed towards the door for an emergency.
But he was again at fault. That unaffected stoical fortitude in acute
suffering, which was the one remaining pride and glory of Low's race,
was yet to be revealed to Wynn's civilized eyes.
The young man took the letter, and read it without changing a muscle,
folded the ring in it, and dropped it into his haversack. Then he
picked up his blanket, threw it over his shoulder, took his trusty
rifle in his hand, and turned toward Wynn as if coldly surprised that
he was still standing there.
"Are you--are you--going?" stammered Wynn.
"Are you _not_?" replied Low dryly, leaning on his rifle for a moment
as if waiting for Wynn to precede him.
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