“Speak,”—­she commanded, waving her wand,—­“what hast thou done?”

“Did I not obey thy will and, under such terms as I could procure, open for thee the treasure room of thy desire?” growled the man on the rock.

“And still,” she retorted, “when I made myself subject to those terms, and obediently looked not upon the hidden mystery—­still the room of my desires became a trap betraying me into rude hands from which I narrowly escaped.  And you—­you fled the scene of your wrong-doing, without so much as by-your-leave, and for these long weeks have wandered, irresponsible, among my hills.  Did you not say that my home was under these glowing peaks, and in the purple shadows of these canyons?  Did you think that I would not find you here, and charm you again within reach of my power?”

“And what is thy will, good spirit?”—­he asked, humbly—­“tell me thy will and it shall be done—­if thou wilt but make music only upon the instrument that is in thy hand.”

With a laugh, she ended the play, saying, “My will is that you and Mr. King come, to-morrow evening, for supper with Miss Willard and me.  Brian Oakley and Mrs. Oakley will be there.  I want you too.”

The men looked at each other in doubt.

“Really, Miss Andres,” said the artist, “we—­”

The girl interrupted with one of her flash-like changes.  “I have invited you.  You must come.  I shall expect you.”  And before either of the men could speak again, she sprang lightly across the little stream, and disappeared through the willow wall.

“Well, I’ll be—­” The novelist checked himself, solemnly—­staring blankly at the spot where she had disappeared.

The artist laughed.

“What do you think of it?” demanded Conrad Lagrange, turning to his friend.

Aaron King, packing up his things, answered, “I think we’d better go.”

Which opinion was concurred in by Brian Oakley who dropped in on them that evening.

Chapter XX

Myra’s Prayer and the Ranger’s Warning

That same afternoon, while Sibyl Andres was making music for Aaron King in the spring glade, Brian Oakley, on his way down the canyon, stopped at the old place where Myra Willard and the girl were living.  Riding into the yard that was fenced only by the wild growth, he was greeted cordially by the woman with the disfigured face, who was seated on the porch.

“Howdy, Myra,” he called in return, as he swung from the saddle; and leaving the chestnut to roam at will, he went to the porch, his spurs clinking softly over the short, thick grass.

“Where’s Sibyl?” he asked, seating himself on the top step.

“I’m sure I don’t know, Mr. Oakley,” the woman answered, smiling.  “You really didn’t expect me to, did you?”

The Ranger laughed.  “Did she take gun, basket, rod or violin?  If I know whether she’s gone shooting berrying, fishing or fiddling, it may give me a clue—­or did she take all four?”