The girl's flight over
grass and gravel was like nothing so much as that of a bird skimming
through the air. Ford's own steps crunched loudly on the stillness of the
night, so that if any one lay in ambush he knew he could not escape. He
was prepared to hear shots come ringing from any quarter, but he ran on
with the indifference of a soldier grown used to battle, intent on keeping
up with the shadow fleeing before him.
He followed her through the garden gate he himself had left open, and down
the lane leading to the pasture. At the point where he had entered it from
the right, she turned to the left, keeping away from the mountains and
parallel with the lake. There was no moon, but the night was clear; and no
sound but that of the shrill, sustained chorus of insect life.
Beyond the pasture the lane became nothing but a path, zigzagging up a
hillside between patches of Indian corn. The girl sped over it so lightly
that Ford would have found it hard to keep her in sight if from time to
time she had not paused and waited. When he came near enough to see the
outlines of her form she flew on again, less like a living woman than a
mountain wraith.
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