“Gratton’s, then King’s, then Gratton’s again?” Brodie chuckled.  “I don’t care whose before Gratton’s the first time; but whose after Gratton’s the last time, that’s it!  Who are you for, Bright-Eyes?  Me or Steve?”

“No!” she cried, her hands at her breast.  “No!  I am not like that!  I was not Gratton’s; I am ...  I am Mark King’s wife!”

“So?” admitted Brodie good-humouredly.  “Well, that cuts no ice; it’s open and shut you’d gone back to Gratton.  Now, come over here.  Closer.”

“I won’t,” she shuddered.  “You don’t dare make me!  I ...  Oh, won’t you let me go?  You have your gold there; you have gold and whiskey; you don’t want me....”

“Whiskey, gold, and women,” muttered Brodie.  “They go together fine.  And quit that little schoolgirl dodge; you make me sick.  If you wasn’t what you are, you wouldn’t be where you are.  Come over here and give us a kiss.”  He jerked from his pocket a dull lump, one of the smaller, richer nuggets.  “I’m no pincher; come across and I’ll give you a whole handful of gold!” His tone was playful.

But Jarrold cut in less playfully: 

“Leave her alone, Brodie,” he advised.  “She don’t cotton to you, and, what’s more, whose gold is it, anyhow?  We ain’t divided yet.  And she....  Well, if she belongs to anybody, she’s mine!”

“So?” Brodie’s monosyllable was expressionless.  “Well, I was asking her.  And she ain’t answered yet.”

Fast as the girl’s heart beat, her thoughts sought to fly faster.  These men were brutes; here she began, and, alas, here she ended.  She had never known what brute meant; she had called Mark King that!  And now, if only Mark King could hear her call, could come to her....  But that was less thought than prayer.  These were brute beasts; their bestiality when they had first come upon her was terrifying; now, as the alcohol burned in their half-starved stomachs and the further intoxication of gold crept into their blood, her terror was boundless.  In a moment she would feel upon her either the hands of Brodie or the hands of Jarrold.  And she was helpless and hopeless.  Until, since life connotes hope, there came a faint flicker of light.  And with it came a sudden, compelling, swift longing.  If she might set them to quarrelling over her, to send a snarling man at a snarling man’s throat....  Her hands dropped to her sides, and were clenched; she lifted her chin; with all that strength that lay in the innermost soul of Gloria King she strove to drive her great fear out of her eyes, to hide it from their wolfish regard, to summon up in its stead a mocking inscrutability.  There was but one thing left to do, but one part to play——­Oh, God, if she could play the part!  She stood motionless, silent; she battled with herself; she struggled mightily for a calm utterance.  And in the end she said in a tone which she managed to make full of challenge: 

“Which of you is the better man?”