When out of earshot from the house he put
spurs to the mustang, and dashed into a gallop.
To intersect the mountain road he was obliged to traverse part of the
highway his wife had walked that afternoon, and to pass within a mile
of the _casa_ where she was. Long before he reached that point his eyes
were straining the darkness in that direction for some indication of
the house which was to him familiar. Becoming now accustomed to the
even obscurity, less trying to the vision than the alternate light and
shadow of cloud or the full glare of the moonlight, he fancied he could
distinguish its low walls over the monotonous level. One of those
impulses which had so often taken the place of resolution in his
character suddenly possessed him to diverge from his course and
approach the house. Why, he could not have explained. It was not from
any feeling of jealous suspicion or contemplated revenge--that had
passed with the presence of Patterson; it was not from any vague
lingering sentiment for the woman he had wronged--he would have shrunk
from meeting her at that moment.
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