"Mescal," he went on, "these past months have been years,
years of toiling, thinking, changing, but always loving. I'm not the man
you knew. I'm wild-- I'm starved for a sight of you. I love you! Mescal,
my desert flower!"
She raised her free hand to his shoulder and swayed toward him. He held
her a moment, clasped tight, and then released her.
"I'm quite mad!" he exclaimed, in a passion of self-reproach. "What a
risk I'm putting on you! But I couldn't help it. Look at me-- Just
once--please-- Mescal, just one look. . . . Now go."
The drama of the succeeding days was of absorbing interest. Hare had
liberty; there was little work for him to do save to care for Silvermane.
He tried to hunt foxes in the caves and clefts; he rode up and down the
broad space under the walls; he sought the open desert only to be driven
in by the bitter, biting winds. Then he would return to the big
living-room of the Naabs and sit before the burning logs. This spacious
room was warm, light, pleasant, and was used by every one in leisure
hours. Mescal spent most of her time there. She was engaged upon a new
frock of buckskin, and over this she bent with her needle and beads.
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