Yet he was loath to leave the
wood, halting on its verge, and turning to look back into its charmed
recesses. Once or twice--perhaps because he recalled the words of the
poem--that yellowish sea of ferns had seemed instinct with hidden life,
and he had even fancied, here and there, a swaying of its plumed crests.
Howbeit, he still lingered long enough for the open sunlight into which
he had obtruded to point out the bravery of his handsome figure. Then
he wheeled his horse, the light glanced from polished double bit and
bridle-fripperies, caught his red sash and bullion buttons, struck a
parting flash from his silver spurs, and he was gone!
For a moment the light streamed unbrokenly through the wood. And then
it could be seen that the yellow mass of undergrowth HAD moved with the
passage of another figure than his own. For ever since he had entered
the shade, a woman, shawled in a vague, shapeless fashion, had watched
him wonderingly, eagerly, excitedly, gliding from tree to tree as he
advanced, or else dropping breathlessly below the fronds of fern whence
she gazed at him as between parted fingers.
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