"I came to a familiar rock, which, part of the bank whereon I walked,
rose some six or seven feet above the meadow, just opposite a little
hollow where the lady oftenest sat. Two were on the grass together, one a
lady seated, the other a man, with his head in the lady's lap. I gave a
leap as if a bullet had gone through my heart, then instinctively drew
back behind the rock. There I came to myself, and began to take courage.
She had gone away for the night: it could not be she! I peeped. The man
had raised his head, and was leaning on his elbow. It was Edmund, I was
certain! She stooped and kissed him. I scrambled to the top of the rock,
and sprang across the stream, which ran below me like a flooded millrace.
Would to God I had missed the bank, and been swept to the great fall! I
was careless, and when I lighted, I fell. Her clear mocking laugh rang
through the air, and echoed from the scoop of some still mountain. When I
rose, they were on their feet.
"'Quite a chamois-spring!' remarked the lady with derision.
"She saw the last moment was come. Neither of us two spoke.
"'I told you,' she said, 'neither of you was to trouble me to-night: you
have paid no regard to my wish for quiet! It is time the foolery should
end! I am weary of it. A woman cannot marry a double man--or half a man
either--without at least being able to tell which is which of the two
halves!'
"She ended with a toneless laugh, in which my brother joined.
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