One half of it David saw--the blue sky, the dazzling sun,
the girl in between. The pistol dropped from his limp hand, and
the weight of his body tottered on the crook of his under-elbow.
Mentally and physically he was on the point of collapse, and yet
in those few moments every detail of the picture was painted with
a brush of fire in his brain. The girl was bareheaded. Her face
was as white as any face he had ever seen, living or dead; her
eyes were like pools that had caught the reflection of fire; he
saw the sheen of her hair, the poise of her slender body--its
shock, stupefaction, horror. He sensed these things even as his
brain wobbled dizzily, and the larger part of the picture began to
fade out of his vision. But her face remained to the last. It grew
clearer, like a cameo framed in an iris--a beautiful, staring,
horrified face with shimmering tresses of jet-black hair blowing
about it like a veil. He noticed the hair, that was partly undone
as if she had been in a struggle of some sort, or had been running
fast against the breeze that came up the river.
He fought with himself to hold that picture of her, to utter some
word, make some movement.
Pages:
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36