He showed well
enough he was serious.
"That black devil's hypnotized her," my aunt put it.
Deolda seemed to have some awful kinship to Mark Hammar, and Johnny
Deutra, who never paid much attention to old Conboy, paid attention to
him. Black looks passed between them, and I would catch "Nick" Hammar's
eyes resting on Johnny with a smiling venom that struck fear into me.
Johnny Deutra seldom came daytimes, but he came in late one afternoon
and sat there looking moodily at Deolda, who flung past him with the air
she had when she wore the saffron shawl. I could almost see its long
fringes trailing behind her as she stood before him, one hand on her
tilted hip, her head on one side.
It was a queer sort of day, a day with storm in the air, a day when all
our nerves got on edge, when the possibility of danger whips the blood.
I had an uncomfortable sense of knowing that I ought to leave Deolda and
Johnny and that Johnny was waiting for me to go to talk. And yet I was
fascinated, as little girls are; and just as I was about to leave the
room I ran into old Conboy hurrying in, his reddish hair standing on
end.
"Well, Deolda," said he, "Captain Hammar's gone down the Cape all of a
sudden. He told me to tell you good-by for him. Deolda, for God's sake,
marry me before he comes back! He'll kill you, that's what he'll do.
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