HOW KALMAN FOUND HIS MINE
The girl's enthusiasm for her new-found friend was such that the
whole party decided to accept his invitation. And so they did,
spending a full day and night on the ranch, exploring, under
French's guidance, the beauty spots, and investigating with the
greatest interest, especially on Miss Marjorie's part, the
farming operations, over which Kalman was presiding.
That young man, in dumb and abashed confusion of face, strictly
avoided the party, appearing only at meals. There, while he made
a brave show, he was torn between the conflicting emotions of
admiration of the easy nonchalance and self-possession with
which Jack played the host, and of furious rage at the air of
proprietorship which Mr. Edgar Penny showed towards Miss Marjorie.
Gladly would he have crushed into a shapeless pulp the ruddy,
chubby face of that young man. Kalman found himself at times with
his eyes fixed upon the very spot where his fingers itched to grip
that thick-set neck, but in spite of these passing moments of fury,
the whole world was new to him. The blue of the sky, the shimmer of
the lake, the golden yellow of the poplars, all things in earth and
heaven, were shining with a new glory. For him the day's work had
no weariness. He no longer trod the solid ground, but through paths
of airy bliss his soul marched to the strains of celestial music.
Poor Kalman! When on that fateful morning upon his virgin soul
there dawned the vision of the maid, the hour of fate struck for
him. That most ancient and most divine of frenzies smote him.
He was deliciously, madly in love, though he knew it not. It is
something to his credit, however, that he allowed the maiden to
depart without giving visible token of this divine frenzy raging
within his breast, unless it were that in the blue of his eyes
there came a deeper blue, and that under the tan of his cheek
a pallor crept. But when on their going the girl suddenly turned
in her saddle and, waving her hand, cried, "Good-by, Kalman," the
pallor fled, chased from his cheek by a hot rush of Slavic blood as
he turned to answer, "Good-by." He held his hat high in a farewell
salutation, as he had seen Jack do, and then in another moment she
was gone, and with her all the glory of that golden autumn day.
To Kalman it seemed as if months or years must have passed since he
first saw her by her Aunt's tent on that eventful morning. To take
up the ordinary routine was impossible to him. That very night,
rolling up his blankets and grub for three days, and strapping on
to his saddle an axe and a shovel, Kalman rode off down the Night
Hawk Creek, telling Mackenzie gruffly, as he called his dogs to
follow, that he purposed digging out a coyote's den that he knew
lay somewhere between the lake and the Creek mouth.
The afternoon of the second day found him far down the Creek, where
it plunged headlong into the black ravine below, not having discovered
his wolf den and not much caring whether he should or not; for as he
rode through the thick scrub he seemed to see dancing before him in
the glancing beams that rained down through the yellow poplar leaves
a maiden's face with saucy brown eyes that laughed at him and lured
him and flouted him all at once.
At the edge of the steep descent he held up his broncho. He had
never been down this way before. The sides of the ravine pitched
sharply into a narrow gorge through which the Night Hawk brawled
its way to the Saskatchewan two miles farther down.
"We'll scramble down here, Jacob," he said to his broncho,--so named
by Brown, for that he had "supplanted" in Kalman's affection his
first pony, the pinto.
He dismounted, drew the reins over the broncho's head, and began
the descent, followed by his horse, slipping, sliding, hanging on
now by trees and now by jutting rocks. By the edge of what had once
been a small landslip, he clutched a poplar tree to save himself
from going over; but the tree came away with him, and horse and man
slid and rolled down the slope, bringing with them a great mass of
earth and stone. Unhappily, Jacob in his descent rolled over upon
the boy's leg. There was a snap, a twinge of sharp pain, and boy
and horse lay half imbedded in the loose earth. Kalman seized a
stick that lay near at hand.
"Get up, Jacob, you brute!" he cried, giving him a sharp blow.
Jacob responded with a mighty plunge and struggled free, making
it possible for Kalman to extricate himself. He was relieved to
discover that he could stand on his feet and could walk, but only
with extreme pain. Upon examination he could find no sign of broken
bones. He took a large handkerchief from his neck, bound it tightly
about his foot and ankle.
"I say, Jacob, we're well out of that," he said, looking up at the
great cave that had been excavated by the landslip. "Quite a hole,
eh? A great place to sleep in. Lots of spruce about, too. We'll
just camp here for the night. I guess I'll have to let those
coyotes go this trip. This beastly foot of mine won't let me dig
much. Hello!" he continued, "that's a mighty queer rock. I'll just
take a look at that hole."
He struggled up over the debris and entered the cave. Through the
earth there showed a glistening seam slanting across one side and
ending in a broken ledge.
"By Jove!" he cried, copying Jack French in his habit of speech as
in other habits, "that looks like the coal we used to find along
the Winnipeg tracks."
He broke off a piece of the black seam. It crumbled in his hands.
"I guess not," he said; "but we'll get the shovel at it."
Forgetting for the time the pain of his foot, he scrambled down
over the soft earth, got his shovel, and was soon hard at work
excavating the seam. Soon he had a very considerable pile lying
at the front of the cave.
"Now we'll soon see," he cried.
He hurriedly gathered some dry wood, heaped the black stuff upon
it, lighted it, and sat down to wait the issue. Wild hopes were
throbbing at his heart. He knew enough of the value of coal to
realize the importance of the discovery. If it should prove to
be coal, what a splendid thing it would be for Jack and for him!
How much they would be able to do for Mrs. French and for his
sister Irma! Amid his dreams a new face mingled, a face with
saucy brown eyes, but on that face he refused to allow himself
the rapture of looking. He dared not, at least not yet. Keenly
he watched the fire. Was it taking hold of the black lumps?
The flames were dying down. The wood had nearly burned itself out.
The black lumps were charred and dead, and with their dying died
his hopes.
He glanced out upon the ravine. Large soft flakes of snow were
falling lazily through the trees.
"I'll get my blankets and grub under cover, and get some more
wood for the night. It's going to be cold."
He heaped the remains of the wood he had gathered upon the fire,
and with great difficulty, for his foot was growing more and more
painful with every move, he set about gathering wood, of which
there was abundance near at hand, and making himself snug for the
night. He brought up a pail of water from the Creek, and tethered
his broncho where there was a bunch of grass at the bottom of the
ravine. Before he had finished these operations the ground was
white with snow, and the wind was beginning to sigh ominously
through the trees.
"Going to be a blizzard, sure," he said. "But let her blow. We're
all right in here. Hello! where are those dogs? After the wolves,
I'll be bound. They'll come back when they're ready."
With every moment the snow came down more thickly, and the wind
grew toward a gale.
"If it's going to be a storm, I'd better lay in some more wood."
At the cost of great pain and labour, he dragged within reach of
the cave a number of dead trees. He was disgusted to find his stock
of provisions rather low.
"I wish I'd eaten less," he grumbled. "If I'm in for a three days'
storm, and it looks like that, my grub will run out. I'll have a
cup of tea to-night and save the grub for to-morrow."
As he was busy with these preparations, a sudden darkness fell on
the valley. A strange sound like a muffled roaring came up the
ravine. In a single minute everything was blotted out before him.
There hung down before his eyes a white, whirling, blinding,
choking mass of driving snow.
"By Jove! that's a corker of a blizzard, sure enough! I'll draw my
fire further in."
He seized his shovel and began to scrape the embers of his fire
together. With a shout he dropped his shovel, fell on his knees,
and gazed into the fire. Under the heap of burning wood there was
a mass of glowing coal.
"Coal!" he shouted, rushing to the front of the cave. "Coal! Coal!
Oh, Jack! Dear old Jack! It's coal!"
Trembling between fear and hope, he broke in pieces the glowing
lumps, rushed back to the seam, gathered more of the black stuff,
and heaped it around the fire. Soon his doubts were all at rest.
The black lumps were soon on fire and blazed up with a blue flame.
But for his foot, he would have mounted Jacob and ridden straight
off for the ranch through all the storm.
"Let her snow!" he cried, gazing into the whirling mist before his
eyes. "I've got the stuff that beats blizzards!"
He turned to his tea making, now pausing to examine the great black
seam, and again going to the cave entrance to whistle for his dogs.
As he stood listening to the soft whishing roar of the storm, he
thought he heard the deep bay of Queen's voice. Holding his breath,
he listened again. In the pause of the storm he heard, and
distinctly this time, that deep musical note.
"They're digging out a wolf," he said. "They'll get tired and come
back soon."
He drank his tea, struggled down the steep slope, the descent made
more difficult by the covering of soft snow upon it, and drew
another pail of water for evening use. Still the dogs did not
appear. He went to the cave's mouth again, and whistled loud and
long. This time quite distinctly he caught Queen's long, deep bay,
and following that, a call as of a human voice.
"What?" he said, "some one out in that storm?"
He dropped upon his knees, put his hands up to his ears, and
listened intently again. Once more, in a lull of the gale,
he heard a long, clear call.
"Heavens above!" he cried, "a woman's voice! And I can't make
a hundred yards with this foot of mine."
He knew enough of blizzards to realize the extreme danger to any
one caught in those blinding, whirling snow clouds.
"I can't stay here, and I can't make it with this foot,
but--yes--By Jove! Jacob can, though."
He seized his saddle and struggled out into the storm. Three paces
from the door he fell headlong into a soft drift, wrenching his
foot anew. Choking, blinded, and almost fainting with the pain,
he got to his feet once more and fought his way down the slope
to where he knew his horse must be.
"Jacob!" he called, "where are you?"
The faithful broncho answered with a glad whinny.
"All right, old boy, I'll get you."
In a few minutes he was on the broncho's back and off down the
valley, feeling his way carefully among the trees and over stones
and logs. As he went on, he caught now and then Queen's ringing
bugle-note, and as often as he caught it he answered with a loud
"Halloo!" It was with the utmost difficulty that he could keep
Jacob's head toward the storm. Yard by yard he pressed his way
against the gale, holding his direction by means of the flowing
stream. Nearer and nearer sounded the cry of the hound, till in
answer to his shouting he heard a voice call loud and clear. The
valley grew wider, the timber more open, and his progress became
more rapid. Soon, through the drifting mass, he caught sight of
two white moving figures. The dogs bounded toward him.
"Hello there!" he called. "Here you are; come this way."
He urged forward his horse till he was nearly upon them.
"Oh, Kalman! Kalman! I knew it was you!"
In an instant he was off his horse and at her side.
"You! You!" he shouted aloud above the howling gale. "Marjorie!
Marjorie!" He had her in his arms, kissing her face madly, while
sobbing, panting, laughing, she sank upon his breast.
"Oh, Kalman! Kalman!" she gasped. "You must stop! You must stop!
Oh! I am so glad! You must stop!"
"God in Heaven!" shouted the man, boy no longer. "Who can stop me?
How can I stop? You might have died here in the snow!"
At a little distance the other figure was hanging to a tree,
evidently near to exhaustion.
"Oh, Kalman, we were fair done when the dogs came, and then I
wouldn't stop, for I knew you were near. But my! my! you were
so long!"
The boy still held her in his arms.
"I say, young man, what the deuce are we going to do?
I'm played out. I cawn't move a blawsted foot."
The voice recalled Kalman from heaven to earth. He turned to
the speaker and made out Mr. Edgar Penny.
"Do!" cried Kalman. "Why, make for my camp. Come along.
It's up stream a little distance, and we can feel our way.
Climb up, Marjorie."
"Can I?"
"Yes, at once," said Kalman, taking full command of her.
"Now, hold on tight, and we'll soon be at camp."
With the gale in their backs, they set off up stream, the men
holding by the stirrups. For some minutes they battled on through
the blizzard. Well for them that they had the brawling Creek to
guide them that night, for through this swaying, choking curtain
of snow it was impossible to see more than a horse length.
In a few minutes Mr. Penny called out, "I say, I cawn't go a step
further. Let's rest a bit." He sat down in the snow. Every moment
the wind was blowing colder.
"Come on!" shouted Kalman through the storm. "We must keep going
or we'll freeze."
But there was no answer.
"Mr. Penny! Mr. Penny!" cried Marjorie, "get up! We must go on!"
Still there was no answer. Kalman made his way round to the man's
side. He was fast asleep.
"Get up! Get up, you fool, or you will be smothered!" said Kalman,
roughly shaking him. "Get up, I say!"
He pulled the man to his feet and they started on once more,
Mr. Penny stumbling along like a drunken man.
"Let me walk, Kalman," entreated Marjorie. "I feel fresh and
strong. He can't go on, and he will only keep us back."
"You walk!" cried Kalman. "Never! If he can't keep up let him
stay and die."
"No, Kalman, I am quite strong."
She slipped off the horse, Kalman growling his wrath and disgust,
and together they assisted Mr. Penny to mount. By this time they
had reached the thickest part of the woods. The trees broke to some
extent the force of the wind, but the cold was growing more intense.
"Single file here!" shouted Kalman to Marjorie. "You follow me."
Slowly, painfully, through the darkness and drifted snow, with
teeth clenched to keep back the groans which the pain of his
foot was forcing from him, Kalman stumbled along. At length a
misstep turned his foot. He sank with a groan into the snow.
With a cry Marjorie was beside him.
"Oh, Kalman, you have hurt yourself!"
"It is this cursed foot of mine," he groaned. "I twisted it
and something's broken, I am afraid, and it _is_ rather sore."
"Hello there! what's up?" cried Mr. Penny from his saddle.
"I'm getting beastly cold up here."
Marjorie turned wrathfully upon him.
"Here, you great lazy thing, come down!" she cried. "Kalman, you
must ride."
But Kalman was up and once more leading the way.
"We're almost there," he cried. "Come along; he couldn't find the path."
"It's just a great shame!" cried Marjorie, half sobbing, keeping by
his side. "Can't I help you? Let me try."
Her arm around him put new life into him.
"By Jove! I see a fire," shouted Mr. Penny.
"That's camp," said Kalman, pausing for breath while Marjorie held
him up. "We're just there."
And so, staggering and stumbling, they reached the foot of the
landslip. Here Kalman took the saddle off Jacob, turned him loose,
and clambered up to the cave, followed by the others. Mr. Penny
sank to the ground and lay upon the cave floor like one dead.
"Well, here we are at last," said Kalman, "thank God!"
"Yes, thank God!" said Marjorie softly, "and--you, Kalman."
She sank to her knees on the ground, and putting her face in her
hands, burst into tears.
"What is it, Marjorie?" said Kalman, taking her hands down from her
face. "Are you hurt? What is it? I can't bear to see you cry like
that." But he didn't kiss her. The conventionalities were seizing
upon him again. His old shyness was stealing over his spirit. "Tell
me what to do," he said.
"Do!" cried Marjorie through her sobs. "What more can you do? Oh,
Kalman, you have saved me from an awful death!"
"Don't speak of it," said the boy with a shudder. "Don't I know it?
I can't bear to think of it. But are you all right?"
"Right?" said Marjorie briskly, wiping away her tears. "Of course
I'm all right, an' sair hungry, tae."
"Why, of course. What a fool I am!" said Kalman. "I'll make you tea
in a minute."
"No, let me," cried Marjorie. "Your poor foot must be awful.
Where's your teapot? I'm a gran' tea maker, ye ken." She was in
one of her daft moods, as Aunt Janet would say.
Never was such tea as that which they had from the tin tea pail and
from the one tin cup. What though the blizzard howled its loudest
in front of their cave? What though the swirling snow threatened
now and then to douse their fire? What though the tea boiled over
and the pork burned to a crisp? What though a single bannock stood
alone between them and starvation? What cared they? Heaven was
about them, and its music was ringing in their hearts.
Refreshed by their tea, they sat before the blazing fire, all
three, drying their soaked garments, while Mr. Penny and Marjorie
recounted their experiences. They had intended to make Wakota, but
missed the trail. The day was fine, however, and that gave them no
concern till the storm came up, when suddenly they had lost all
sense of direction and allowed their ponies to take them where they
would. With the instinct bred on the plains, the ponies had made
for the shelter of the Night Hawk ravine. Up the ravine they had
struggled till the darkness and the thick woods had forced them to
abandon the ponies.
"I wonder what the poor things will do?" interjected Marjorie.
"They'll look after themselves, never fear," said Kalman.
"They live out all winter here."
Then through the drifts they had fought their way, till in the
moment of their despair the dogs came upon them.
"We thought they were wolves," cried Marjorie, "till one began to
bay, and I knew it was the fox-hound. And then I was sure that you
would not be far away. We followed the dogs for a while, and I kept
calling and calling,--poor Mr. Penny had lost his voice
entirely,--till you came and found us."
A sweet confusion checked her speech. The heat of the fire became
suddenly insupportable, and putting up her hand to protect her
face, she drew back into the shadow.
Mr. Penny, under the influence of a strong cup of boiling tea and
a moderate portion of the bannock and pork,--for Kalman would not
allow him full rations,--became more and more confident that they
"would have made it."
"Why, Mr. Penny," cried Marjorie, "you couldn't move a foot
further. Don't you remember how often you sat down, and I had
just to pull you up?"
"Oh," said Mr. Penny, "it was the beastly drift getting into my
eyes and mouth, don't you know. But I would have pulled up again in
a minute. I was just getting my second wind. By Jove! I'm strong on
my second wind, don't you know."
But Marjorie was quite unconvinced, while Kalman said nothing.
Over and over again they recounted the tale of their terrors and
their struggle, each time with some new incident; but ever and
anon there would flame up in Marjorie's cheek the flag of distress,
as if some memory smote her with a sudden blow, and her hand would
cover her cheek as if to ward off those other and too ardent kisses
of the dancing flames. But at such times about her lips a fitful
smile proclaimed her distress to be not quite unendurable.
At length Mr. Penny felt sleepy, and stretching himself upon the
dry earth before the fire, passed into unconsciousness, leaving the
others to themselves. Over the bed of spruce boughs in the corner
Kalman spread his blankets, moving about with painful difficulty
at his task, his groans growing more frequent as they called forth
from his companion exclamations of tender commiseration.
The story of those vigil hours could not be told. How they sat
now in long silences, gazing into the glowing coals, and again
conversing in low voices lest Mr. Penny's vocal slumbers should
be disturbed; how Marjorie told the short and simple story of her
life, to Kalman all wonderful; how Kalman told the story of his
life, omitting parts, and how Marjorie's tender eyes overflowed
and her rosy cheeks grew pale and her hand crept toward his arm
as he told the tragedy of his mother's death; how she described
with suppressed laughter the alarms of her dear Aunt Janet that
morning--was it a month ago?--how he told of Jack French, what
a man he was and how good; how she spoke of her father and his
strength and his tenderness, and of how he spoiled her, against
which Kalman vehemently protested; how he told of Brown and his
work for the poor ignorant Galicians, and of the songs they sang
together; how she made him sing, at first in undertones soft and
low, lest poor Mr. Penny's sleep should be broken, and then in
tones clear and full, the hymns in which Brown and French used to
join, and then, in obedience to her peremptory commands, his own
favourite Hungarian love-song, of which he shyly told her; how her
eyes shone like stars, her cheeks paled, and her hands held fast
to each other in the ecstasy of her rapture while he told her what
it all meant, at first with averted looks, and then boldly pouring
the passion of his soul into her eyes, till they fell before the
flame in his as he sang the refrain,
"While the flower blooms in the meadow,
And fishes swim the sea,
Heart of my heart, soul of my soul,
I'll love and live for thee";
how then shyness fell on her and she moved ever so little to her
own side of the fire; how he, sensitive to her every emotion, rose
at once to build the fire, telling her for the first time then of
his wonderful discovery, which he had clean forgot; how together
on tiptoe they examined, with heads in close proximity and voices
lowered to a whisper, the black seam that ran down a side of the
cave; how they discussed the possible value of it and what it might
mean to Kalman; and then how they fell silent again till Kalman
commanded her to bed, to which she agreed only upon condition
that he should rouse Mr. Penny when his watch should be over; how
she woke in broad daylight to find him with breakfast ready, the
blizzard nearly done, and the sun breaking through upon a wonderful
world, white and fairylike; how they vainly strove to simulate an
ease of manner, to forget some of the things that happened the
night before, and that neither could ever forget till the heart
should cease to beat.
All this might be told, had one the art. But no art or skill of man
could tell how, as they talked, there flew from eye to eye, hers
brown and his blue-grey, those swift, fluttering signals of the
heart; how he watched to see on her cheek the red flush glow and
pale again, not sure whether it was from the fire upon the cave
floor or from the fire that burns eternal in the heart of man and
maid; how, as he talked and sang, she feared and loved to see the
bold leap of passion in his eyes; and how she speedily learned what
words or looks of hers could call up that flash; how, as she slept,
he piled high the fire, not that she might be warm, but that the
light might fall upon her face and he might drink and drink till
his heart could hold no more, of her sweet loveliness; how, when
first waking, her eyes fell on him moving softly about the cave,
and then closed again till she could dream again her dream and
drink in slow sips its rapture; how he feared to meet her waking
glance, lest it should rebuke his madness of the night; how, as
her eyes noted the haggard look of sleepless watching and of pain,
her heart flowed over as with a mother's pity for her child, and
how she longed to comfort him but dared not; how he thought of the
coming days and feared to think of them, because in them she would
have no place or part; how she looked into the future and wondered
what like would be a life in this new and wonderful land--all this,
no matter what his skill or art, no man could tell.
It was still morning when Jack French and Brown rode up the Night
Hawk ravine, driving two saddled ponies before them. Their common
anxiety had furnished the occasion for the healing of the breach
that for a year and more had held these friends apart.
With voluble enthusiasm Mr. Penny welcomed them, plunging into a
graphic account of their struggle with the storm till happily they
came upon the dogs, who led them to Kalman and his camp. But French,
brushing him aside, strode past to where, trembling and speechless,
Marjorie stood, and then, taking her in his arms, he whispered many
times in her ears, "Thank God, little girl, you are safe."
And Marjorie, putting her arms around Jack's neck, whispered through
radiant tears, "It was Kalman, Jack. Don't listen to yon gommeril.
It was Kalman saved us; and oh, Jack, he is just lovely!"
And Jack, patting her cheek, said, "I know all about him."
"Do you, indeed?" she answered, with a knowing smile. "I doubt.
But oh! he has broken his foot or something. And oh, Jack, he
has got a mine!"
And Jack, not knowing what she meant, looked curiously into her
face and wondered, till Brown, examining Kalman's foot and finding
a broken bone, exclaimed wrathfully, "Say, boy, you don't tell me
you have been walking on this foot?"
But Kalman answered nothing.
"He came for me--for us, Mr. Brown, through that awful storm,"
cried Marjorie penitently; "and is it broken? Oh, Kalman,
how could you?"
But Kalman still answered nothing. His dream was passing from him.
She was restored to her world and was no longer in his care.
"And here's his mine," cried Marjorie, turning Jack toward the
black seam.
"By Jove!" cried Mr. Penny, "and I never saw it. You never showed
it to me."
But during those hours spent in the cave Kalman and Marjorie had
something other to occupy their minds than mines. Jack French
examined the seam closely and in growing excitement.
"By the Lord Harry! Kalman, did you find this?"
Kalman nodded indifferently. Mines were nothing to him now.
"How did you light upon it?"
And Kalman told him how.
"He's just half dead and starved," said Marjorie in a voice that
broke with pity. "He watched all last night while we slept away
like a pair o' stirks."
At the tone in her voice, Jack French turned and gave her a searching
look. The quick, hot blood flamed into her cheeks, and in her eyes
dawned a frank shyness as she gave him back his look.
"I don't care," she said at length; "he's fair dune oot."
But Jack only nodded his head sagely while he whispered to her,
"Happy boy, happy boy! Two mines in one night!"
At which the red flamed up again and she fell to examining with
greater diligence the seam of black running athwart the cave side.
In a few minutes they were mounted and away, Brown riding hard to
bring the great news to the engineer's camp and recall the hunting
parties; the rest to make the ranch, Marjorie in front in happy
sparkling converse with Jack French, and Kalman, haggard and
gloomy, bringing up the rear. A new man was being brought to birth
within him, and sore were the parturition pangs. For one brief
night she had been his; now back to her world, she was his no more.
It was quite two days before the shining sun and the eager air
had licked up from earth the drifts of snow, and two days before
Marjorie felt quite sure she was able to bear again the rigours of
camp life, and two days before Aunt Janet woke up to the fact that
that foreign young man was altogether too handsome to be riding
from morning till night with her niece. For Jack, meanwhile, was
attending with assiduous courtesy the Aunt and receiving radiant
looks of gratitude from the niece. Two days of Heaven, when Kalman
forgot all but that she was beside him; two days of hell when he
remembered that he was but a poor foreign boy and she a great
English lady. Two days and they said farewell. Marjorie was the
last, turning first to French, who kissed her, saying, "Come back
again, little girl," and then to Kalman, sitting on his broncho,
for he hated to go lame before them all.
"Good-by, Kalman," she said, smiling bravely, while her lips
quivered. "I'll no forget yon awful and," leaning slightly toward
him as he took her hand, "yon happy night. Good-by for now.
I'll no forget."
And Kalman, looking straight into her eyes, held her hand without a
word till, withdrawing it from his hold, she turned away, leaving
the smile with him and carrying with her the quivering lips.
"I shall ride a bit with you, little girl," said Jack French,
who was ever quick with his eyes.
She tried to smile at him, but failed piteously. But Jack rode
close to her, talking bright nothings till she could smile again.
"Oh, Jack, but you are the dear!" she said to him as they galloped
together up the trail, Mr. Penny following behind. "I'll mind this
to you."
But before they took the descent to the Night Hawk ravine, they
heard a thunder of hoofs, and wheeling, found Kalman bearing down
upon them.
"Mercy me!" cried Aunt Janet, "what's wrang wi' the lad?"
"I have come to say good-by," he shouted, his broncho tearing up
the earth by Marjorie's side.
Reaching out his hands, he drew her toward him and kissed her
before them all, once, again, and yet again, with Aunt Janet
screaming, "Mercy sakes alive! The lad is daft! He'll do her
a hurt!"
"Hoots! woman, let the bairns be," cried Marjorie's father.
"He saved her for us."
But having said his farewell, Kalman rode away, waving his hand
and singing at the top of his voice his Hungarian love-song,
"While the flower blooms in the meadow,
And fishes swim the sea,
Heart of my heart, soul of my soul,
I'll love and live for thee,"
which none but Marjorie could understand, but they all stood
watching as he rode away, and listening,
"With my lances at my back,
My good sword at my knee,
Light of my life, joy of my soul,
I'll fight, I'll die for thee!"
And as the song ceased she rode away, and as she rode she smiled.