of him a strange
shiver ran through him. He knew now how only a woman, one woman, can
bring to a man his heaven of joy, his hell of sorrows. And that woman,
the one woman, was at last only fifty yards away! After all of these
bitter empty months she was at last only fifty yards away!
He came on slowly, making no sound. He drew near the corner of the
building. The voices came more distinctly, each word clear. The other
voice was the musical utterance of Ramon Garcia. Again Drennen stopped
for a brief instant. Were Sefton and Lemarc in there, too?
Ygerne's laughter drove a frown into his eyes. His hand was steady now
upon his rifle. Her laughter was like a child's, and a child's is like
the music of God's own heaven. Drennen came on.
In another moment he stood at the wide door, looking in. There was a
hunger in his eyes which he could not guess would ever come into them.
He did not see Garcia just then, though the little Mexican stood out in
full view, making the girl a sweeping, exaggerated bow after his
manner. He did not notice the long bare floor nor yet the rough beams
across the ceiling; he registered no mental picture of the deep
throated, rock chimney, the rude, worm eaten table and benches, the few
homemade objects scattered about the long room. He saw only Ygerne
Bellaire, and the picture which she made would never grow dim in the
man's mind though he lived a hundred years.
She stood upon a monster bear skin. Upon the rug, strewn about her
carelessly, their bright discs adance with reflected light, a thousand
minted gold pieces caught the glint of the low sun. Her head was
thrown back, her arms lifted. Her eyes were filled with light, her red
mouth curved to the gaity of her laughter. About her white throat was
the dazzle of diamonds; upon her bared white arms was the splendour of
diamonds.
"My Countess!" murmured the Mexican, his eyes soft with the unhidden
worship in them. "You are like a Lady who is born out from the dream
of a poet! See!" He dropped suddenly to his knees, caught up the hem
of her short skirt and pressed it to his lips. "You are the Queen of
the Worl'!"
"At last," she cried, her voice ringing triumphantly, "I have come into
my own! For it is mine, mine, I tell you! You shall have your share,
and Sefton and Marc! But it is mine, the heritage of Paul Bellaire!"
As Garcia had stooped something had fallen from his breast. Rising
swiftly he caught it up. I
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