The storm
was sure to come at no far distant time. She knew and feared the
violence of the mountain rains.
"By all that's holy," came in a man's voice, low-toned and uncertain;
"it _isn't_ a dream, after all!"
She turned like a flash, with a startled exclamation and an
instinctive movement as if to shield herself from unbidden gaze. Her
lips parted and her heart pounded like a hammer. Standing in the
doorway was Randolph Shaw, his figure looming up like a monstrous,
wavering genie in the uncertain light from the shaking lantern. His
right hand was to his brow and his eyes were wide with incredulous
joy. She noticed that the left sleeve of his dinner jacket hung limp,
and that the arm was in a white sling beneath.
"Is it really you?" he cried, his hand going instinctively to his
watch-pocket as if doubting that it was night instead of morning.
"I've--I've run away from them," she stammered. "It's two
o'clock--don't look! Oh, I'm so sorry now--why did I--"
"You ran away?" he exclaimed, coming toward her. "Oh, it can't be a
dream. You are there, aren't you?" She was a pitiable object as she
stood there, powerless to retreat, shaking like a leaf. He took her by
the shoulder. "Yes--it is _you_. Good Lord, what does it mean? What
has happened? How did you come here? Are you alone?"
"Utterly, miserably alone. Oh, Mr. Shaw!" she cried despairingly. "You
_will_ understand, won't you?"
"Never! Never as long as I live. It is beyond comprehension. The
wonderful part of it all is that I was sitting in there dreaming of
you--yes, I was.
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