CHAPTER XV.
A soft breeze from the Adriatic sighed and whispered through the lofty tops of the great pines which rose straight and dark and solemn from the brim of the high plateau. The yellow moon, which two nights before had looked down, cold and bright and merciless, upon the slaughter of the Shkipetari, now shone with a fervor almost caressing in its luscious warmth, tempered by the soft air from the sea.
Far below the rolling hills swelled away to infinity, bathed in luminous disorder, their crests converted into islands of enchantment, rising from the sea of mist which filled the valleys.
Side by side, at the foot of one of the big forest sentinels, Dallas and the Lady Thalia sat upon the carpet of aromatic pine needles and looked out upon the moonlit wilderness. Not far beneath them on the mountainside there sparkled a light or two from the little inn where the refugees had halted for the night.
Presently Dallas spoke, his voice subdued to the murmur of the gentle breeze in the treetops, high above their heads.
"Dear, to-morrow you will have to say good-by to your savage mountains. Cettinjé is over there"—he pointed toward the vague distance before them.
"Am I never to see my hills again, Stephen?" asked the girl.
"It's hard to tell, sweetheart, Perhaps some day we may come back for a visit. But your home is going to be very far away from them."
"Where, dearest?"
"In my own country, Thalia, I've been too long away. We Americans are not built for the silly, aimless life that I've been leading; we are meant for strife and action and keen effort."
"You are." She nestled closer.
"I'm afraid," said Dallas, "that I'm not as civilized as I thought I was. Do you know, dear, I have never felt so fit and happy in my life as I have back there in your hills. The hardship and the danger and all seemed to fill some long-felt want. I could never go back to the insipid life in Paris, after this!"
"I'm glad, Stephen. I am not so very tame myself, you know!" She laughed caressingly, and took his hand in both of hers. "We're well mated, aren't we, dear?"
He drew her to him, and held her there, his lips resting against her cheek.
"I am afraid that we are two savages, dear. Your fathers were Shkipetari and spent their time in carving the Turks with their yataghans. Mine were Texas Rangers, and spent their time in carving up greasers with bowie knives. There's not much to choose! Then you and I come along, and are sent to school in France and told to be polite. And at the very first chance we trot out and shoot up the country as naturally and joyfully as if we had been taught to do it! But it shows me where I really belong; and of course you belong with me."
Thalia seized his wrists, and turned to stare at him with large and startled eyes.
"Do you mean that you are going back to America to fight with—what do you call them—greasers? And Indians, perhaps? Oh, no, no, Stephen! What if you should be killed?"
Dallas took her in his arms. "No, darling," said he. "Those days are past. We are going to be married and live in a peaceful country enough, but one where a man does a man's work—and makes other men do it, too! I don't know what mine will be; but I have inherited big responsibilities, dear—railroads and factories and great tracts of half-savage country to be developed—and I am going back to develop it—and myself! And you shall help!"
"I shall try, dear." Thalia's voice was tremulous. "Do you think that I can really help? And, oh, Stephen"—a sob rose in her throat—"will you love me always and truly, when you have me all alone in that big, far-away country of yours?" She hid her face in his chest.
Dallas clasped her in his arms, then raised her face, and kissed her warm, trembling lips.
"Thalia, darling! If you only knew!" he whispered. "I keep asking myself what I have ever done to deserve such a woman! Resolute, cheerful, fearless, and tender. Ah, my dear, if you only knew!"
Her arms tightened about his neck, her face crushed to his. But the night wind from the valley seemed to whisper to the murmuring pines:
"Truly, and always!"