"You love diamonds. I have often noticed that; you look so long at the ring on your hand. That is why I have let it stay there, though at times I have feared it would drop off and roll away over the adobe down the mountain-side. Was I right?"
"Yes, yes." The words came with difficulty, but they were clear enough. "It's of small value. I like it because--"
He appeared to be too weak to finish.
A pause, during which she seemed to edge nearer to him.
"We all have some pet keepsake," said she. "But I should never have supposed this stone of yours an inexpensive one. But I forget that you are the owner of a very large and remarkable diamond, a diamond that is spoken of sometimes in the papers. Of course, if you have a gem like that, this one must appear very small and valueless to you."
"Yes, this is nothing, nothing." And he appeared to turn away his head.
"Mr. Fairbrother! Pardon me, but I want to tell you something about that big diamond of yours. You have been in and have not been able to read your letters, so do not know that your wife has had some trouble with that diamond. People have said that it is not a real stone, but a well-executed imitation. May I write to her that this is a mistake, that it is all you have ever claimed for it--that is, an unusually large diamond of the first water?"
I listened in amazement. Surely, this was an insidious way to get at the truth,--a woman's way, but who would say it was not a wise one, the wisest, perhaps, which could be taken under the circumstances? What would his reply be? Would it show that he was as ignorant of his wife's death as was generally believed, both by those about him here and those who knew him well in New York?
Or would the question convey nothing further to him than the doubt--in itself an insult of the genuineness of that great stone which had been his pride?
A murmur--that was all it could be called--broke from his fever-dried lips and died away in an inarticulate gasp. Then, suddenly, sharply, a cry broke from him, an intelligible cry, and we heard him say:
"No imitation! no imitation! It was a sun! a glory! No other like it! It lit the air! it blazed, it burned! I see it now! I see--"
There the passion succumbed, the strength failed; another murmur, another, and the great void of night which stretched over--I might almost say under us--was no more quiet or seemingly impenetrable than the silence of that moon-enveloped tent Would he speak again? I did not think so. Would she even try to make him? I did not think this, either. But I did not know the woman.
Softly her voice rose again. There was a dominating insistence in her tones, gentle as they were; the insistence of a healthy mind which seeks to control a weakened one.
"You do not know of any imitation, then? It was the real stone you gave her. You are sure of it; you would be ready to swear to it if--say just yes or no," she finished in gentle urgency.
Evidently he was sinking again into unconsciousness, and she was just holding him back long enough for the necessary word.
It came slowly and with a dragging intonation, but there was no mistaking the ring of truth with which he spoke.
"Yes," said he, When I heard the doctor's voice and felt a movement in the canvas against which I leaned, I took the warning and stole back hurriedly to my quarters.
I was scarcely settled, when the same group of three I had before watched silhouetted itself again against the moonlight. There was some talk, a mingling and separating of shadows; then the nurse glided back to her duties and the two men went toward the clump of trees where the horse had been tethered.
Ten minutes and the doctor was back in his bunk. Was it imagination, or did I feel his hand on my shoulder before he finally lay down and composed himself to sleep? I can not say; I only know that I gave no sign, and that soon all stir ceased in his direction and I was left to enjoy my triumph and to listen with anxious interest to the strange and unintelligible sounds which accompanied the descent of the horseman down the face of the cliff, and finally to watch with a fascination, which drew me to my knees, the passage of that sparkling star of light hanging from his saddle. It crept to and fro across the side of the opposite mountain as he threaded its endless zigzags and finally disappeared over the brow into the invisible canyons beyond.
With the disappearance of this beacon came lassitude and sleep, through whose hazy atmosphere floated wild sentences from the sick tent, which showed that the patient was back again in Nevada, quarreling over the price of a horse which was to carry him beyond the reach of some threatening avalanche.
When next morning I came to depart, the doctor took me by both hands and looked me straight in the eyes.
"You heard," he said.
"How do you know?" I asked.
"I can tell a satisfied man when I see him," he growled, throwing down my hands with that same humorous twinkle in his eyes which had encouraged me from the first.
I made no answer, but I shall remember the lesson.
One detail more. When I stared on my own descent I found why the leggings, with which I had been provided, were so indispensable.
I was not allowed to ride; indeed, riding down those steep declivities was impossible. No horse could preserve his balance with a rider on his back. I slid, so did my horse, and only in the valley beneath did we come together again.
