e ford, the bank is close by; for
the path by which they approached the glade has been parallel to the
trend of the stream. The live-oak overlooks it, with only a bordering
of bushes between.

Through this runs a narrow trace made by wild animals, the forest
denizens that frequent the adjacent timber, going down to their drinking
place.

Parting the branches, that would sweep the plumed tiara from his head,
the lieutenant glides along it, not stealthily, but with confidence, and
as if familiar with the way. Once through the thicket, he sees the
river broad and bright before him: its clear tranquil current in
contrast with the dark and stormy passions agitating his own heart. He
is not thinking of this, nor is there any sentiment in his soul, as he
pauses by the side of the stream. He has sought it for a most prosaic
purpose--to wash his face. For this he has brought with him a piece of
soap and a rag of cotton cloth, taken out of a haversack carried on the
pommel of his saddle.

Stepping down the slope, he stoops to perform his ablutions. In that
water-mirror many a fierce ugly face has been reflected but never one
fiercer or uglier than his, under its garish panoply of paint. Nor is
it improved, when this, sponged off shows the skin to be white; on the
contrary, the sinister passions that play upon his features would better
become the complexion of the savage.

Having completed his lavatory task, he throws soap and rag into the
river; then, turning, strides back up the bank. At its summit he stops
to readjust his plumed head-dress, as he does so, saying in soliloquy:--

"I'll give her a surprise, such as she hasn't had since leaving the
States. I'd bet odds she'll be more frightened at my face now, than
when she saw it in the old garden. She didn't recognise it then; she
will now. And now for her torture, and my triumph: for the revenge I've
determined to take. Won't it be sweet!"

At the close of his exultant speech, he dives into the dark path, and
gliding along it, soon re-enters the glade.

He perceives no change, for there has been none.

Going on to her from whom he had separated, he again places himself by
her recumbent form, and stands gazing upon, gloating over it, like a
panther whose prey lies disabled at its feet, to be devoured at leisure.

Only an instant stays he in this attitude; then stooping till his head
almost touches hers, he hisses into her ear:--

"So, Helen, at length and