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She glances at her watch. It is now a quarter past three; so there is no time to be lost. She must hasten. It is growing dusk; "the shades of night are falling fast," the cold pale sun, that all day long has cast its chill October beams upon a leafless world, has now sunk behind the distant hill, and the sad silence of the coming night hath set her finger with deep touch upon creation's brow. "Oh, yes, you may go," says Mona. Geoffrey says nothing. He is looking at her with curiosity, in which deep love is mingled. She is so utterly unlike all other women he has ever met, with their petty affectations and mock modesties, their would-be hesitations and their final yieldings. She has no idea she is doing anything that all the world of women might not do, and can see no reason why she should distrust her friend just because he is a man..
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"Very," returns he, surprised. He has not thought of her as one versed in lore of any kind. "What poets do you prefer?" "Oh, Mona, do you mean that?" he says. But Mona, who is very justly incensed, declines to answer him with civility. It was on this stream near the mountains that the Piegans were camped when Mīka´pi went to war. This was long ago. They threw his bones out of the door, where they fell among many others like them. The ground was strewn with the bones of the persons she had trapped and killed..
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