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Leland tells us that in his day not only did the tree still exist against which, according to him, the arrow glanced off and struck the King, but a little chapel remained there then very old, in which Mass was wont to be offered for the repose of the King's soul. I wish that I might have seen it, for it would have pleased me.
And you can take my word for it I'd have taken my time about getting here if I hadn't known that Mr. Leland was with you in the matter."
Zeb used his utmost powers of persuasion to induce Kent to reach his hand toward him, hoping to revenge himself as he had upon a former occasion; but the hunter was too shrewd for him, and with a threatening gesture, left him to himself, and joined his companions. "Gorra!" said Zeb to Leland, "if I doesn't believe dat dat's de nigger I sawed up in de barn toder day." "You mean cut up?"
But his eyes were still startled rather than glad, and they passed his cousin turning, full of question, to Martin Leland. "Of course I'm glad," he said, his voice a little uncertain. And then, laughing, "You just surprised me out of my senses. Why didn't you write that you were coming?" "Because I'd rather travel three thousand miles to tell you about it than write a letter.
They met and Leland sent Borrow his "Breitmann Ballads" because of the German Romany ballad in it, and his "Music Lesson of Confucius" because of the poem in it inspired by Borrow's reference to Svend Vonved in "The Romany Rye."
Boncour maintained a stolid silence that covered a seething internal fury when the newspaperman in question hinted that the landlord and tenant were on exceptionally good terms. It was after a fruitless day of such search that we were sitting in the reading-room of the Fairfield Hotel. Leland entered. His face was positively white.
They had not been there very long when the Fairview carriage was seen to turn in at the great gates and come swiftly up the drive. As it drew up before the entrance they perceived with pleasure that it contained Mr. and Mrs. Leland and Evelyn, Grandma Elsie, and Rosie.
Papa Leland, in white serge and a big straw hat with a bigger puggaree on it, winked benevolent in the dazzling sunlight. The party crawled along the Grande Rue, and once off its execrable pavement took the road at a moderately good pace, saw the sights, enjoyed the drive, and started for home again, very much disappointed with the Sweet Waters, and but poorly impressed with the environs of Constantinople on the whole.
Winter went its white way, the spring brought a thawing sun, innumerable muddy torrents and an occasional visitor, the robins and blue birds began to troop back to the mountains. Martin Leland was at home, his sturdier steers were in the valleys, Conway came back to the Bar L-M and often visited the Lelands.
"She's one great little kid, Wanda is, ain't she?" he ran on, totally unaffected by the significance of the young woman's back whose graceful curves were not lost to his admiring eyes. "If you say so she must be," came the calm answer. "I never saw her before to-day." "And you don't know old Mart?" She did not know Wanda, he surmised, she had wondered if he were Leland, then it must be Mrs.
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