Supper-time was
unusually quiet that night. Piute was jovial, but no one appeared
willing to talk save the peon, and he could only grimace. The reaction
of feeling following Mescal's escape had robbed Jack of strength of
voice; he could scarcely whisper. Mescal spoke no word; her black lashes
hid her eyes; she was silent, but there was that in her silence which was
eloquent. Wolf, always indifferent save to Mescal, reacted to the subtle
change, and as if to make amends laid his head on Jack's knees. The
quiet hour round the camp-fire passed, and sleep claimed them. Another
day dawned, awakening them fresh, faithful to their duties, regardless of
what had gone before.
So the days slipped by. June came, with more leisure for the shepherds,
better grazing for the sheep, heavier dews, lighter frosts, snow-squalls
half rain, and bursting blossoms on the prickly thorns, wild-primrose
patches in every shady spot, and bluebells lifting wan azure faces to the
sun.
The last snow-storm of June threatened all one morning; hung menacing
over the yellow crags, in dull lead clouds waiting for the wind. Then
like ships heaving anchor to a single command they sailed down off the
heights; and the cedar forest became the centre of a blinding, eddying
storm.
Pages:
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132