In the tense silence that followed her trembling ceased. Then his
heart, heavy, irregular, began beating so that the startled pulses in
her body awoke, wildly responsive.
Deep emotions, new, unfamiliar, were stirring, awaking, confusing them
both. In a sudden instinct to escape, she turned and partly rose on one
elbow, gazing blindly about her out of tear-marred eyes.
"I want my room to myself," she murmured in a breathless sort of way,
"-- I want you to go out, please----"
A boyish flush burnt his face. He got up slowly, took his rifle from
the corner, went out, closing the door, and seated himself on the
stairs.
And there, on guard, sat Trooper Stormont, rigid, unstirring, hour after
hour, facing the first great passion of his life, and stunned by the
impact of its swift and unexpected blow.
* * * * *
In her chamber, on the bed's edge, sat Eve Strayer, her deep eyes fixed
on space. Vague emotions, exquisitely recurrent, new born, possessed
her. The whole world, too, all around her seemed to have become misty
and golden and all pulsating with a faint, still rhythm that indefinably
thrilled her pulses to response.
Passion, full-armed, springs flaming from the heart of man. Woman is
slow to burn. And it was the delicate phantom of passion that Eve gazed
upon, there in her unpainted chamber, her sun-tanned fingers linking
listlessly in her lap, her little feet like bruised white flowers
drooping above the floor.
Hour after hour she sat there dreaming, staring at the tinted ghost of
Eros, rose-hued, near-smiling, unreal, impalpable as the dusty sunbeam
that slanted from her window, gilding the boarded floor.
* * * * *
Three spectres, gilding near, paused to gaze at State Trooper Stormont,
on guard by the stairs. Then they looked at the closed door of Eve's
chamber.
Then the three spectres, Fate, Chance, and Destiny, whispering together,
passed on toward the depths of the sunset forest.
* * * * *