Всадник без головы / The Headless Horseman

”

The old hunter was not sufficiently observant to take note of the tone of eager interest in which the question had been asked, nor the sudden deepening of colour upon the cheeks of the questioner as she heard the answer. Neither had escaped the observation of Florinda.

“Miss Looey!” exclaimed the latter, “that’s the name of the brave young white gentleman – that saved us in the black prairie?”

“Yes!” resumed the hunter, relieving the young lady from the necessity of making reply.

“He told me of that circumstance this very morning, before we started. That’s the very fellow as has trapped the spotty; and he is trotting the creature along at this identical minute, in company with about a dozen others. He ought to be here before sundown. I pushed my old mare ahead, to tell your father the spotty was coming, and let him get the first chance of buying. I thought of you, Miss Louise!”

Lightly did Louise Poindexter trip back across the corridor. Only after entering her chamber, did she give way to a reflection of a more serious character, that found expression in words low murmured, but full of mystic meaning —

“It is my destiny: I feel – I know that it is! I dare not meet, and yet I cannot shun it – I may not – I would not – I will not!”

***

On that same evening, after the dining-hall had been deserted, the roof, instead of the drawing-room, was chosen as the place of re-assemblage.

The company now collected to welcome the advent of Woodley Poindexter on his Texan estate, were the elite of the Settlements – not only of the Leona, but of others more distant.

His lovely daughter Louise – the fame of whose beauty had been before her, even in Texas – acted as mistress of the ceremonies – moving about among the admiring guests with the smile of a queen, and the grace of a goddess.

To say that Louise Poindexter was beautiful would only be to repeat the universal verdict of the society that surrounded her.

A single glance was sufficient to satisfy any one upon this point – strangers as well as acquaintances.

She was the cynosure of a hundred pairs of eyes, the happiness of a score of hearts, and perhaps the torture of as many more.

But mingling in that splendid crowd was a man who, perhaps, more than any one present, watched her every movement; and endeavoured more than any other to interpret its meaning. It was Cassius Calhoun.