There was in their love
something primeval, that belonged to the beginning of the world.
Orlando had almost reached the Cross Trails before he saw Mazarine's
wagon standing in the way. At first he did not recognize the horses, and
he called to the driver sitting motionless to move aside. He thought it
to be some drunken ranchman.
Presently, however, coming nearer, he recognized the horses and the man.
Standing up, Orlando was about to call out again in peremptory tones,
when, suddenly, the spirit of death touched his senses, and his heart
stood still for an instant.
As he looked at the motionless figure, he was only subconsciously aware
of the thud of horses' hoofs coming down one of the side-trails.
Springing to the ground, he approached Mazarine's wagon.
The horses neighed; it was a curious, lonely sound. For a moment he
stood with his hand on the wheel looking at the still figure; then he
reached out and touched Mazarine's knee.
"Hi, there!" he said.
There was no reply. He mounted the wagon, touched the dead man's
shoulder, and then, with one hand, loosened the waistcoat and felt the
heart.
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