Jeffery Farnol

“ Dibbin is a witch.”
“People call her so.”
“Never in all my days have I seen a genuine, old witch,—so I’ll come with you, if I may?”
“Oh, this is a very gentle old witch, and she is neither humpbacked, nor does she ride a broom-stick,—so I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed, Mr. Bellew.”
“Then, at least, I can carry your basket,—allow me!” And so, in his quiet, masterful fashion he took the basket from her arm, and walked on beside her, through the orchard.
“What a glorious night it is!” exclaimed Anthea suddenly, drawing a deep breath of the fragrant air,—“Oh! it is good to be alive! ”

“ Dibbin is very old, and sometimes a little queer, and sometimes says very—surprising things.”
“Excellent!” nodded Bellew, holding the little gate open for her, “very right and proper conduct in a witch, and I love surprises above all things.”
But Anthea still hesitated, while Bellew stood with his hand upon the gate, waiting for her to enter. Now he had left his hat behind him, and, as the moon shone down on his bare head, she could not but notice how bright, and yellow was his hair, despite the thick, black brows below. ”

“ And so, for a while, they stood thus, she looking at his arm, and he at her.
“Why—” said she at last, finding voice in a little gasp,—“why then—”
“I am the Man with the Tiger Mark!” he said, smiling his slow, placid smile. Now, as his eyes looked down into hers, she flushed sudden, and hot, and her glance wavered, and fell beneath his. ”