Barlow had
saddled his horse and thrown his blanket loosely behind the saddle.
The air was chilling, but his sheepskin coat would turn its cold
breath; the blanket was for Bootea.
As he had done once before, his feet in stirrups, he reached down a
hand and swung the girl up in front of him. Then he enveloped her in
the blanket as she nestled against his chest, arms about his waist.
Her warm body was like a draught of wine and he muttered, "My God! I
shouldn't have done this!" But he knew that he would have had that
ride if devils had jeered at him from the jungle that lined the road.
As the horse swung along in leisured walking stride, the girl seemed to
have gone to sleep; her cheek lay against Barlow's shoulder, and he
could feel the pulsating throb of her heart. Once a sigh came from her
lips, but it was like a breath of deep content. Barlow felt that he
must talk to the girl; his senses were rampant; he was sitting like the
lotus-eaters drinking in a deadly intoxication.
But it was Bootea who broke the silence as though she, too, felt
herself slipping.
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