Nay, look;
there is no one here, none that you need fear, most certainly.
_Helen_. I saw him, his eye was on me; there he stood, looking through
that window, smiling and beckoning me.
_George_. Saw him? Who, in Heaven's name? This is fancy-work.
_Helen_. I saw him as I see you now. He stood on that roof,--an
Indian,--I saw the crimson bars on his face, and the blanket, and the
long wild hair on his shoulders; and--and, I saw the gleaming knife in
his girdle,--Oh God! I did.
_George_. Ay, ay, 'twas that scoundrel that dogged us in our way home,
I'll lay my life it was.
_Helen_. In our way home? An _Indian_, I said.
_George_. Well, well, and I say an Indian, a rascal Indian, was watching
and following us all the way home just now.
_Helen_. George!
_George_. Then you did not see him after all. In truth, I did not mean
you should, for we could not have hurried more, but all the time we sat
in that shanty, while it rained, about as far off as that chair from me,
stood this same fellow among the bushes, watching us, or rather you. And
you saw him here t He might have crept along by that orchard wall.
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