Was that Queen's bay? Surely it was. "A wolf?" he thought. "No, there are none left in the glen." He shrank from meeting any one that afternoon. He waited to hear again that deep, soft trumpet note, and strained his ear for voices. But all was still except for the falling of a ripe leaf now and then through the trees. He hated to give up the afternoon he had planned.
He rode on. He reached the more open timber. He remembered that it was here he had first caught the sound of voices behind that blinding drift. Through the poplars he pressed his horse. It was at this very spot that, through an opening in the storm, he had first caught sight--what! His heart stood still, and then leaped into his throat. There, on the very spot where he had seen her that night, she stood again to-day! Was it a vision of his fond imagination? He passed his hand over his eyes. No, she was there still! standing among the golden poplars, the sunlight falling all around her. With all his boyhood's frenzy in his heart, he gazed at her till she turned and looked toward him. A moment more, with his spurs into his horse's side, he crashed through the scrub and was at her side.
"You! you!" he cried, in the old cry. "Marjorie! Marjorie!"
Once more he had her in his arms. Once more he was kissing her face, her eyes, her lips. Once more she was crying, "Oh, Kalman!
Stop! You must stop! You must stop!" And then, as before, she laid her head upon his breast, sobbing, "When I saw the dogs I feared you would come, but I could not run away. Oh, you must stop! Oh, I am so happy!" And then he put her from him and looked at her.
"Marjorie," he said, "tell me it is no dream, that it is you, that you are mine! Yes," he shouted aloud, "do you hear me? You are mine! Before Heaven I say it! No man, nothing shall take you from me!"
"Hush, Kalman!" she cried, coming to him and laying her hand upon his lips; "they are just down by the river there."
"Who are they? I care not who they are, now that you are mine!"
"And oh, how near I was to losing you!" she cried. "You were going away to-morrow, and I should have broken my heart."
"Ah, dear heart! How could I know?" he said. "How could I know you could ever love a foreigner, the son of a--"
"The son of a hero, who paid out his life for a great cause," she cried with a sob. "Oh, Kalman, I have been there. I have seen the people, your father's people."
Kalman's face was pale, his voice shaking. "You have seen? You understand? You do not shrink from me?" He felt his very soul trembling in the balance.
"Shrink from you!" she cried in scorn. "Were I Russian, I should be like your father!"
"Now God be thanked!" cried Kalman. "That fear is gone. I fear nothing else. Ah, how brave you are, sweetheart!"
"Stop, Kalman! Man, man, you are terrible. Let me go! They are coming!"
"Hello there! Steady all." It was Brown's voice. "Now, then, what's this?"
Awhile they stood side by side, then Marjorie came shyly to Sir Robert.
"I didn't mean to, father," she said penitently, "not a bit. But I couldn't help myself. He just made me."
Sir Robert kissed her.
Kalman stepped forward. "And I couldn't help it, Sir," he said.
"I tried my best not to. Will you give her to me?"
"Listen to him, now, will you?" said Sir Robert, shaking him warmly by the hand. "It wasn't the fault of either of them."
"Quite true, Sir," said French gravely. "I'm afraid it was partly mine.
I saw the dogs--I thought it would be good for us three to take the other trail."
"Blame me, Sir," said Brown penitently. "It was I who helped to conquer her aversion to the foreigner by showing her his many excellences. Yes," continued Brown in a reminiscent manner, "I seem to recall how a certain young lady into these ears made solemn declaration that never, never could she love one of those foreigners."
"Ah," said Marjorie with sweet and serious emphasis, "but not my foreigner, my Canadian foreigner."
