“I’m not going to talk about it any more.  I’ve already given you my answer—­twenty times.”

The man talked on, but the girl walked with lifted chin, apparently not hearing.  They followed the board sidewalk into the shadows, finally turning in at a ramshackle, three-room house that was perched on the hillside almost at the end of the street at the outer limits of the village.

The girl turned to go in, but the man held fast to her arm.  “Wait just a minute, Bee,” he urged.  “I’ve got one thing more to say to you.”

The girl looked into his face, now faintly illumined by the full moon that was rising, incredibly large and white, above the dark line of the spruce tops.  For all the regularity of his rather handsome features, his was never an attractive face to her, even in first, susceptible girlhood; and in the moonlight it suddenly filled her with dread.  Ray Brent was a dangerous type:  imperious willed, slave to his most degenerate instincts, reckless, as free from moral restraint as the most savage creatures that roamed his native wilds.  Now his facial lines appeared noticeably deep, dark like scars, and curious little flakes of iniquitous fire danced in his sunken eyes.

“Just one minute, Bee,” he went on, wholly rapt in his own, devouring desires.  The dark passions of the man, always just under the skin, seemed to be getting out of bounds.  “When I want something, I don’t know how to quit till I get it.  It’s part of my nature.  Your pop knows that—­and that’s why he’s made me his pardner in a big deal.”

“If my father wants men like you—­for his pardners, I can’t speak for his judgment.”

“Wait just a minute.  He’s told me—­and I know he’s told you too—­that I’d suit him all right for a son-in-law.  He and I agree on that.  And this country ain’t like the places you read about in your story books—­it’s a man’s country.  Oh, I know you well enough.  It’s time you got down to brass tacks.  If you’re going to be a northern woman, you’ve got to be content with the kind of men that grow up here.  Up here, the best man wins, the hardest, strongest man.  That’s why I’m going to win you.”

Because he was secretly attacking her dreams, the dearest part of her being, she felt the first surge of rising anger.

“You’re not the best man here,” she told him, straightening.  “If you were, I’d move out.  You may be the strongest in your body, and certainly the hardest, going further to get your own way—­but a real man would break you in two in a minute.  Some one more than a brute to beat horses to death and jump claims.  I’m going in now.  Please take away your hand.”

“One thing more.  This is the North.  We do things in a man’s way up here—­not a story-book way.  The strong man gets what he wants—­and I want you.  And I’ll get you, too—­just like I get this kiss.”

He suddenly snatched her toward him.  A powerful man; she was wholly helpless in his grasp.  His arms went about her and he pressed his lips to hers—­three times.  Then he released her, his eyes glowing like red coals.