Charred Wood

Then there was the man Saunders had spoken of, but Mark thought little of him. Whatever he had been to the girl once, Mark felt that the officer was out of her life now and that she no longer cared for him.

It was dusk when the weary man reached that part of the bluff road where the giant tree stood. Tired of body, and with aching heart, he flung himself into the tall grass wherein he had lain on the day he first saw her. Lying there, bitter memories and still more bitter regrets overmastered him as he thought of the weeks just past.

The gray ocean seemed trying---and the thought consoled him a little--to call him back home; but the great tree whispered to him to remain. Then Father Murray's face seemed to rise up, pleading for his sympathy and help. It was strange what a corner the man had made for himself in Mark's heart; and Mark knew that the priest loved him even as he, Mark, loved the priest; but he felt that he must go away, must flee from the misery he dared not face. Mark was big and strong; but he cried at last, just as he had cried in boyhood when his stronger brother had hurt his feelings, or his father had inflicted some disappointment upon him; and a strong man's tears are not to be derided.

How long he thus lay, brooding and miserable, he did not even care to know. A step aroused him from his stupor.

He looked up. A man was coming from the road toward the tree. He was tall, handsome and dark of face, Mark thought, for the moon had risen a little and the man was in the light. His stride was that of a soldier, with a step both firm and sure. He looked straight ahead, with his eyes fixed on the tree as though that were his goal. He passed Mark's resting-place quickly and struck three times on the tree, which gave back a hollow sound. Then he waited, while Mark watched. In a minute the signal was repeated, and only a few more instants passed before the doorway in the tree was flung open.

Mark saw the white-gowned figure of the lady of the tree step out. He heard her cry "Luigi!" with a voice full of joy and gladness. The two met in quick embrace, and the desolation of the watcher was complete as he heard her speak lovingly to the officer who had at last come back into her life. She spoke in French and--was it because of the language used or of the unusual excitement?--her voice took on a strange elusive quality utterly unlike the richness of the tones Mark loved so well, yet remained vibrant, haunting in its sibilant lightness. Never again would he hear it so. He longed to go, but there was no present way of escape, so he steeled his heart to listen.