In the dimming pale light Venters looked down upon the girl. She
had sunk into his arms, upon his breast, burying her face. She
clung to him. He felt the softness of her, and the warmth, and
the quick heave of her breast. He saw the dark, slender, graceful
outline of her form. A woman lay in his arms! And he held her
closer. He who had been alone in the sad, silent watches of the
night was not now and never must be again alone. He who had
yearned for the touch of a hand felt the long tremble and the
heart-beat of a woman. By what strange chance had she come to
love him! By what change--by what marvel had she grown into a
treasure!
No more did he listen to the rush and roar of the thunder-storm.
For with the touch of clinging hands and the throbbing bosom he
grew conscious of an inward storm--the tingling of new chords of
thought, strange music of unheard, joyous bells sad dreams
dawning to wakeful delight, dissolving doubt, resurging hope,
force, fire, and freedom, unutterable sweetness of desire. A
storm in his breast--a storm of real love.
CHAPTER XIV. WEST WIND
When the storm abated Venters sought his own cave, and late in
the night, as his blood cooled and the stir and throb and thrill
subsided, he fell asleep.
With the breaking of dawn his eyes unclosed. The valley lay
drenched and bathed, a burnished oval of glittering green. The
rain-washed walls glistened in the morning light.
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