Love had called him--and life--and he knew death hung in the
balance. If Bostil found him seeking Lucy there would be blood spilled. Slone
quaked at the thought, for the cold and ghastly oppression following the death
he had meted out to Sears came to him at times. But such thoughts were
fleeting; only one thought really held his mind--and the one was that Lucy
loved him, had sent strange, wild, passionate words to him.
He found the narrow path, its white crossed by slowly moving black bars of
shadow, and stealthily he followed this, keen of eye and ear, stopping at
every rustle. He well knew the bench Lucy had mentioned. It was in a remote
corner of the grove, under big trees near the spring. Once Slone thought he
had a glimpse of white. Perhaps it was only moonlight. He slipped on and on,
and when beyond the branching paths that led toward the house he breathed
freer. The grove appeared deserted. At last he crossed the runway from the
spring, smelled the cool, wet moss and watercress, and saw the big cottonwood,
looming dark above the other trees.
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