He threw himself under a large pine, and watched the stagecoach
disappear as it swept round into the courtyard of the hotel.
He sat there for some moments with his eyes bent upon the two forks
of the red road that diverged below him, but which appeared to become
whiter and more dazzling as he searched their distance. There was
nothing to be seen except an occasional puff of dust which eventually
revealed a horseman or a long trailing cloud out of which a solitary
mule, one of a pack-train of six or eight, would momentarily emerge and
be lost again. Then he suddenly heard his name called, and, looking up,
saw Mrs. Horncastle, who had halted a few paces from him between two
columns of the long-drawn aisle of pines.
In that mysterious half-light she seemed such a beautiful and
goddess-like figure that his consciousness at first was unable to grasp
anything else. She was always wonderfully well dressed, but the warmth
and seclusion of this mountain morning had enabled her to wear a light
gown of some delicate fabric which set off the grace of her figure,
and even pardoned the rural coquetry of a silken sash around her still
slender waist. An open white parasol thrown over her shoulder made
a nimbus for her charming head and the thick coils of hair under her
lace-edged hat. He had never seen her look so beautiful before. And that
thought was so plainly in his frank face and eyes as he sprang to his
feet that it brought a slight rise of color to her own cheek.
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