He should die now of hunger and thirst in that
Sahara; he hoped the Fates would let it be soon--but he knew they would
not; knew that this was hysteria, that in his endurance he should plod on,
plod, plod dustily on, through dingy, lonely years.
There was a rumble of thunder far out on the western prairie. A cold
breath stole through the hot stillness, and an arm of vapor reached out
between the moon and the quiet earth. Darkness fell. The man and the girl
kept silence between them. They might have been two sad guardians of the
black little stream that splashed unseen at their feet. Now and then an
echo of far away lightning faintly illumined them with a green light.
Thunder rolled nearer, ominously; the gods were driving their chariots
over the bridge. The chill breath passed, leaving the air again to its hot
inertia.
"I did not want to go," she said, at last, with tears just below the
surface of her voice. "I wanted to stay here, but he--they wouldn't--I
can't."
"Wanted to stay here?" he said, huskily, not turning. "Here?"
"Yes."
"In Rouen, you mean?"
"In Plattville."
"In Plattville?" He turned now, astounded.
"Yes; wouldn't you have taken me on the 'Herald'?" She rose and came
toward him. "I could have supported myself here if you would--and I've
studied how newspapers are made; I know I could have earned a wage.
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