Part 43 (1/2)

It was good to be alone with her sorrow, her shame.

She breathed a prayer from the depths of her soul--a wordless invocation. She is close to the jungle now, and the pleasant shade of the foliage cools her feverish brain.

She steps fearlessly into the thick undergrowth. Then pauses, for the sound of a horse attracts her attention. It is the heavy tread of the huge charger, on which that handsome white stranger, gun in hand, is seeking prey.

Eleanor watches the flash of those wonderful eyes, there is something unholy, devilish, in their unusual splendour. Her full red lips are drawn in and compressed.

She raises her gun, and before Eleanor can cry out the woman has fired!

The bullet whizzes past her head, for a moment her heart stops beating, the narrow escape fills her with horror!

She fancies the stranger saw her before she pulled the trigger, and let off her gun out of sheer devilment, to show her accuracy.

But scarcely has she recovered from the fright when a second report is heard from the bushes close by, and the great charger, on which this reckless sportswoman is seated, falls dead beneath her. She rolls off the saddle, and stands like a fury over the body.

”What villain has killed my horse?” she cries aloud, in a deep voice, which even in its anger sounds strangely fascinating, despite the masculine slang.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”What villain has killed my horse?”]

Eleanor rushes forward.

”The unseen hand!” she exclaims, hardly knowing what she says.

”How do you mean?” asks the tall woman.

”Someone shot from the bushes; didn't you see? First of all you nearly hit me, it was the closest shave I ever had, and immediately your horse fell----”

”I'll soon find out who has been making a target of me,” muttered the stranger.

So saying, she fires recklessly into the bushes, but there is no sound, no cry.

Eleanor watches this wild creature curiously. Surely she will apologise for nearly killing her through inexcusable carelessness.

But she says no word, only watches the smoke rise, and anathematises the fate that has slain a useful beast.

Eleanor forgets her own grievance, and sympathises with the stranger's loss.

”It could not have been done intentionally,” she declares.

”I don't believe in chance; it was a dead aim, depend upon it.”

Eleanor's eyes expand at this remark.

”Who are you?” she asks. ”What is your name?”

”I am a woman,” replies the other, with a mocking smile; ”my name is Paulina.”

She shows no wish to be acquainted with Eleanor's ident.i.ty.

”What will you do without your horse?”