And at that look his spirits
leaped like a steed under the spur. What he had not dared, considering
himself on his own merits, he ventured now. If vague, hidden sentiment,
as he had thought of Clare Kavanagh, had restrained him in the past, it
no longer restrained him now.
The excitement of the day had given him a queer exaltation. He had been
one of the chiefs in the arena where all the great State looked on at
the combatants. The overlord had just given him soul-stirring proof of
his affection, half in jest as Harlan realized, remembering the occasion
for it, but it was none the less gratifying. Madeleine Presson had
looked at him with strange, new interest in her gaze when the General
spoke out. It had occurred to Harlan that it was not the same
good-humored tolerance which she had so frequently shown in her past
relations with the bashful woodsman. His unquiet grudge against Linton
spiced the whole.
He turned to the girl.
She seemed altogether desirable. Something in her eyes responded to his
own feelings.
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