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A Pagan In The Hills

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An Excerpt:  ""I reckon I've got my second wind now," he lamely announced. "Mebby thar's a
leetle mite more work left in me yit atter all," and he started back, stumbling
with the ache of tired bones, to the task he had renounced, while his fellows
grumbled a little and followed his lead.
Throughout the day Brent had felt himself an ineffective. He had done what he
could but his activities had always seemed to be on the less strenuous fringe of
things like a bee who works on the edge of a honey comb.
Now as the replenished fire leaped high and the hills resounded to an occasional
peal of unseasonable thunder the figure of the woman who had assumed a man's
responsibility became a pattern of action. In the flare and the shadow he
watched it, fascinated. It was always in the forefront, frequently in actual but
unconsidered peril, leading like the white plume of Navarre.
It was all as lurid and as turgid a picture as things seen in nightmare or
remembered from mythology-this turmoil of emergency effort through a fire-lit
night of storm and flood; figures thrown into exaggeration as the flames leaped
or dwindled-faces haggard with weariness."


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