"But all Mary ever saw of him was that second night when she thought
she saw a streak of white, traveling like a galloping horse, that
disappeared over a hill and into the trees--"
"A streak of white--"
"Yes, yes! The white horse--McGurk!"
"McGurk!" repeated Pierre stupidly; then: "And you knew she would be
going out to him when she left this house?"
"I knew--Pierre--don't look at me like that--I knew that it would be
murder to let you cross with McGurk. You're the last of seven--he's a
devil--no man--"
"And you let her go out into the night--to him."
She clung to a last thread of hope: "If you met him and killed him
with the luck of the cross it would bring equal bad luck on someone
you love--on the girl, Pierre!"
He was merely repeating stupidly: "You let her go out--to him--in the
night! She's in his arms now--you devil--you tiger--"
She threw herself down and clung about his knees with hysterical
strength.
He tore the little cross from his neck and flung it into her upturned
face.
"Don't make me put my hands on you, Jack.
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