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by Gladys Mad I
"\Jrou poor, white little thing, you !"
I The "Cave Man," as Dorothy dubbed him, smiled down at the slim girl at his side with a half-contemptuous, half-hungry pity. "Why, I dont s'pose," he went on, holding the branches back as they followed the wooded path, "I dont s'pose you've ever known a real, honest spring, when the trees are all burstin ' with sap an' the bluebird's callin' to its mate. I dont s'pose you've ever felt all sorter heady an' — an' ready for your mate, have you ? ' '
"N-not exactly," stammered Dorothy, strangely abashed at the vibrant note in the strong voice. She was unversed, but she knew that mating note. What woman doesn 't ?
"Nor you've never felt how the moon feels when it floats all soft-like on the lake, have you? Why, it's marryin' that lake — it's wanted to possess it for ages an' ages; and when spring comes — it docs. That's what spring's for — little woman "
Dorothy laughed nervously. ' ' Why, Pierre," she said, "I'd no idea you were a poet. I believe I've made a true find, back here in the woods."
The man stopped short in his path and wheeled on her su< Idenly. ' ' No, ' ' he said, and his voice was grating and hoarse, "I aint a poet — and I aint a 'find.' But I'm a man, do you hear — a man that wants you — and wants you now. You've had a lot of fun with me, practicing your city ways on me and f oolin ' with what I offer you — now it's my turn. I Ve had my way since the day I was born, and I 've got
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it in one way — this!" He held out a brawny arm, and Dorothy gazed, fascinated, at the muscles swelling, knotted and powerful, under the smooth flesh. "Now, will you have me or wont you ? ' '
"I wont!" The girl's face crimsoned with anger at the note of mastery. "You brute — you — you — Pierre, what are you going to do?"
The powerful arms had wound about her, and the wooded path to the station, whither she was bound to meet her mother, was abandoned.
"I'm goin' to take you," he laughed triumphantly, "just as the bluebirds take their mates — same as the moon takes the waters after waitin' so many years. I guess we can do without one o' the smug-faced preachers pratin' to us out o' a prayer-book. You didn't see fit to do it that way — so we'll try mine."
Dorothy's first thoughts were commingled ones of rage and helplessness ; then, because she was a woman, she felt an odd, irrelevant sense of pride in the easy strength of him as he bore her over the uneven ground. Her upturned eyes, even in their half-fear, could not help but measure the strength of the man who carried her as easily as a child. She drank in the play of the cords in the bronze neck above her, the crisp, thick, blueblack hair, the eyes as clear^ and dauntless as a stag's.
Back in the city where she had come from there was no man who either could or would dare to love like this. It was primitive, of course — there