They believed Beauty
Stanton had loved Neale--had--Allie would have died before admitting
that last thought to her consciousness. For a second the room turned
black. Her hold on the curtains kept her from falling. With frantic
and terrible earnestness--the old dominance Neale had acquired over
her--she clung to the one truth that mattered. She loved Neale--
belonged to him--and he was there! That they were about to meet
again was as strange and wonderful a thing as had ever happened.
What had she not endured? What must he have gone through? The fiery,
stinging nature of her new and sudden pain she could not realize.
Again the strong speech became distinct to her.
"... You'll stay here--and you, Dillon.... Don't any one leave this
room.... Lee, you can leave, if you want. But we'll see Neale, and
so will Allie Lee."
Allie spread the curtains and stood there. No one saw her. All the
men faced the door through which sounded slow, heavy tread of boots.
An Irishman entered. Then a tall man. Allie's troubled soul suddenly
calmed. She saw Neale.
Slowly he advanced a few steps. Another man entered, and Allie knew
him by his buckskin garb. Neale turned, his face in the light. And a
poignant cry leaped up from Allie's heart to be checked on her lips.
Was this her young and hopeful and splendid lover? She recognized
him, yet now did not know him.
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