In fact, the
camp was not over fifteen miles from Bostil's Ford. It was so close that Lucy
was worried lest some horse-tracker should stumble on the trail and follow her
up into the pass.
This morning she espied Slone at his outlook on a high rock that had fallen
from the great walls. She always looked to see if he was there, and she always
saw him. The days she had not come, which were few, he had spent watching for
her there. His tasks were not many, and he said he had nothing to do but wait
for her. Lucy had a persistent and remorseful, yet sweet memory of Slone at
his lonely lookout. Here was a fine, strong, splendid young man who had
nothing to do but watch for her--a waste of precious hours!
She waved her hand from afar, and he waved in reply. Then as she reached the
cedared part of the pass Slone was no longer visible. She put Sarchedon to a
run up the hard, wind-swept sand, and reached the camp before Slone had
climbed down from his perch.
Lucy dismounted reluctantly. What would he say about the riding-habit that she
wore? She felt very curious to learn, and shyer than ever before, and
altogether different.
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