And all the time, while he spoke vehemently and she for the
most part listened in a fascinated silence, they were riding on through
the moonlit night. . . . It seemed to her that surely he must love her
as few men had loved before. . . .
The village he had promised her was in reality but two poor houses at a
crossroads, inhabited by two Mexican men and dowdy women. On the way
they encountered but one horseman; Galloway turned his own and
Florence's animals out so that, though seen, they might escape
recognition. At the nearest of the two hovels he dismounted, raising
his arms to her. When she cried out and shrank back trembling, he
laughed softly, caught her in his arms, and lifted her free of the
saddle; when he would have kissed her she put her face into her two
hands.
"I . . . I want to go back!" she whispered. "I am afraid! Please, Mr.
Galloway, please let me go home."
Dogs were barking, a man and woman came out. The man laughed. Then he
gathered up the bridle-reins and led the horses to the barn. Florrie,
shrinking out of Galloway's embrace, looked particularly little and
helpless in her pretty riding-habit.
She went with Galloway into the lamplighted room. The woman looked at
her curiously, then to Galloway, something of wonder and upstanding
admiration in her beady eyes.
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