A girl sat on the mossy river-bank in the dappled, golden sunlight.
Frowning eyes fixed on a sweeping eddy, she watched without seeing the
racing current. Her slim, supple body, crouched and tense, was
motionless, but her soul seethed tumultuously. In the bosom of her coarse
linsey gown lay hidden a note. Through it destiny called her to the
tragic hour of decision.

The foliage of the young pawpaws stirred behind her. Furtively a pair of
black eyes peered forth and searched the opposite bank of the stream, the
thicket of rhododendrons above, the blooming laurels below. Very
stealthily a handsome head pushed out through the leaves.

"'Lindy," a voice whispered.

The girl gave a start, slowly turned her head. She looked at the owner of
the voice from steady, deep-lidded eyes. The pulse in her brown throat
began to beat. One might have guessed her with entire justice a sullen
lass, untutored of life, passionate, and high-spirited, resentful of all
restraint. Hers was such beauty as lies in rich blood beneath dark
coloring, in dusky hair and eyes, in the soft, warm contours of youth.
Already she was slenderly full, an elemental daughter of Eve, primitive
as one of her fur-clad ancestors. No forest fawn could have been more
sensuous or innocent than she.

Again the man's glance swept the landscape cautiously before he moved out
from cover. In the country of the Clantons there was always an open
season on any one of his name.