The World For Sale | Page 9

of her contour. In
contrast to the light brown of the hair was the very dark brown of the
eyes and the still darker brown of the eyelashes. The face shone, the
eyes burned, and the piquancy of the contrast between the soft
illuminating whiteness of the skin and the flame in the eyes had
fascinated many more than Ingolby.
Her figure was straight yet supple, somewhat fuller than is modern
beauty, with hints of Juno-like stateliness to come; and the curves of
her bust, the long lines of her limbs, were not obscured by her
absolutely plain gown of soft, light-brown linen. She was tall, but not
too commanding, and, as her hand was raised to fasten back a wisp of
hair, there was the motion of as small a wrist and as tapering a bare arm
as ever made prisoner of a man's neck.
Impulse was written in every feature, in the passionate eagerness of her
body; yet the line from the forehead to the chin, and the firm
shapeliness of the chin itself, gave promise of great strength of will.
From the glory of the crown of hair to the curve of the high instep of a
slim foot it was altogether a personality which hinted at history--at
tragedy, maybe.
"She'll have a history," Madame Bulteel, who now stood beside the girl,
herself a figure out of a picture by Velasquez, had said of her sadly; for
she saw in Fleda's rare qualities, in her strange beauty, happenings
which had nothing to do with the life she was living. So this duenna of
Gabriel Druse's household, this aristocratic, silent woman was ever on
the watch for some sudden revelation of a being which had not found
itself, and which must find itself through perils and convulsions.

That was why, to-day, she had hesitated to leave Fleda alone and come
to Carillon, to be at the bedside of a dying, friendless woman whom by
chance she had come to know. In the street she had heard of what was
happening on the river, and had come in time to receive Fleda from the
arms of her rescuer.
"How did you get here?" Fleda asked her.
"How am I always with you when I am needed, truant?" said the other
with a reproachful look. "Did you fly? You are so light, so thin, you
could breathe yourself here," rejoined the girl, with a gentle, quizzical
smile. "But, no," she added, "I remember, you were to be here at
Carillon."
"Are you able to walk now?" asked Madame Bulteel.
"To Manitou--but of course," Fleda answered almost sharply.
After the first few minutes the crowd had fallen back. They watched
her with respectful admiration from a decent distance. They had the
chivalry towards woman so characteristic of the West. There was no
vulgarity in their curiosity, though most of them had never seen her
before. All, however, had heard of her and her father, the giant
greybeard who moved and lived in an air of mystery, and apparently
secret wealth, for more than once he had given large sums--large in the
eyes of folks of moderate means, when charity was needed; as in the
case of the floods the year before, and in the prairie-fire the year before
that, when so many people were made homeless, and also when fifty
men had been injured in one railway accident. On these occasions he
gave disproportionately to his mode of life.
Now, when they saw that Fleda was about to move away, they drew
just a little nearer, and presently one of the crowd could contain his
admiration no longer. He raised a cheer.
"Three cheers for Her," he shouted, and loud hurrahs followed.
"Three cheers for Ingolby," another cried, and the noise was boisterous

but not so general.
"Who shot Carillon Rapids?" another called in the formula of the West.
"She shot the Rapids," was the choral reply. "Who is she?" came the
antiphon.
"Druse is her name," was the gay response. "What did she do?"
"She shot Carillon Rapids--shot 'em dead. Hooray!"
In the middle of the cheering, Osterhaut and Jowett arrived in a wagon
which they had commandeered, and, about the same time, from across
the bridge, came running Tekewani and his braves.
"She done it like a kingfisher," cried Osterhaut. "Manitou's got the
belt."
Fleda Druse's friendly eyes were given only for one instant to Osterhaut
and his friend. Her gaze became fixed on Tekewani who, silent, and
with immobile face, stole towards her. In spite of the civilization which
controlled him, he wore Indian moccasins and deerskin breeches,
though his coat was rather like a shortened workman's blouse. He did
not belong to the life about him; he was a being apart, the spirit of
vanished and vanishing days.
"Tekewani--ah,