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He was throbbing and distraught, confused and overthrown, a boy of fourteen beside himself at the prospect of a holiday ... It was a stolen holiday, to be sure, a sort of truancy from manliness, but none the less intoxicating for that. Cosme's Latin nature was on top; Saxon loyalty and conscience overthrown. He was an egoist to his finger-tips that night.
It was a strange hand, small and rather unsteady. The envelope was fat, the postmark Millings. Her flush of surprise ebbed. She knew whose letter it was Sylvester Hudson's. He had found her out. She did not even notice Cosme's departure. She went up to her loft, sat down on her cot and read.
Don Cosme's rancho was at least ten miles from the lines, and the road would not be the safest for the solitary lover. The prospect of frequent returns was not at all flattering. "Can't we steal out at night?" suggested Clayley. "I think we might mount half a dozen of our fellows, and do it snugly. What do you say, Captain?" "Clayley, I cannot return without this brother.
He had caught his foot in a trap, and the blizzard had found him there and had taken mercy on his pain. They did not find his body until spring, and then Cosme's letter to Sheila lay wet and withered in his pocket. The first misery of loneliness takes the form of a restless inability to concentrate. It is as if the victim wanted to escape from himself.
"Our lines are completely around Vera Cruz, and all intercourse to and from the city is at an end." Had a shell fallen into Don Cosme's drawing-room it could not have caused a greater change in the feelings of its inmates. Knowing nothing of military life, they had no idea that our presence there had drawn an impassable barrier between them and a much-loved member of their family.
This man, with a long, thin face, was constantly squinting past Cosme's shoulder, squinting and leering and stretching his great full-lipped mouth into a queer half-smile. At last, abruptly, the irritation came to consciousness and Cosme threw an angry glance over his own shoulder.
He began to watch him. An hour or two later Cosme's thin, dark hand shot across the table and gripped the fellow's wrist. "Caught you that time, you tin-horn," he said quietly. Instantly, almost before the speech was out, the giant in the apron had hurled himself across the room and gripped the cheat, who stood, a hand arrested on its way to his pocket, snarling helplessly.
Wait I'll get you some of Cosme's clothes and a cup of tea." This time, exhausted as he was, Dickie did not fail to stand up to take the cup she brought him. He shook his head at the dry clothes. He didn't want Hilliard's things, thank you; he was drying out nicely by the fire. He wasn't a bit cold. He sat and drank the tea, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees.
What kind of girl travels West from New York at Sylvester Hudson's expense and in his company and queens it in the suite at his hotel?" "Miss Blake," he muttered, "do you know this?" The cigarette had burnt itself out. Cosme's face was no longer cruel. It was dazed. She laughed shortly. "Why, of course, I know Sheila. I know her whole history and it's some history! She's twice the age she looks.
Come, my good fellow, take this!" and I handed a gold eagle to the peon. "Forward!" The tinkling of canteens, the jingling of sabres, and the echo of bounding hoofs recommenced. We were again in motion, filing on through the shadowy woods. Shortly after, we debouched from the forest, entering the open fields of Don Cosme's plantation. There was a flowery brilliance around us, full of novelty.
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