Even this crumb of encouragement—­that he would so far disobey his master—­filled the girl’s heart with hope.  “I would love to go with you, Mr. Marston,” she said, “but if it is going to make trouble for you, I would rather stay.”

“You mean that you would rather be locked up in the cabin all day, than to make trouble for me?” he asked.

“It wouldn’t be so terrible,” she answered, “and I would like to do something—­something to—­to show you that I appreciate your, kindness to me.  There’s nothing else I can do, is there?”

The man looked at her wonderingly.  It was impossible to doubt her sincerity.  And Sibyl, as she saw his face, knew that she had never before witnessed such mental and spiritual anguish.  The eyes that looked into hers so questioningly, so pleadingly, were the eyes of a soul in torment.  Her own eyes filled with tears that she could not hide, and she turned away.

At last he said slowly, “No, Miss Andres, you shall not stay in the cabin to-day.  Come; we must go on, or I shall be late.”

At Granite Peak, Sibyl watched the signal flashes from distant Fairlands—­the flashes that Aaron King was watching, from the peak where they had sat together that day of their last climb.  As the man answered the signals with his mirror, and the girl beside him watched, the artist was training his glass upon the spot where they stood; but, partially concealed as they were, the distance was too great.

When Sibyl’s captor turned, after receiving the message conveyed by the flashes of light, his face was terrible to see; and the girl, without asking, knew that the crisis was drawing near.  Deadly fear gripped her heart; but she was strangely calm.  On the way back to the cabin, the man scarcely spoke, but walked with bent head; and the girl felt him fighting, fighting.  She longed to cry out, to plead with him, to demand that he tell her why he must do this thing; but she dared not.  She knew, instinctively that he must fight alone.  So she watched and waited and prayed.  As they were crossing the face of the canyon wall, on the narrow ledge, the man stopped and, as though forgetting the girl’s presence, stood looking moodily down into the depths below.  Then they went on.  That night, he did not leave the cabin as soon as they had finished their evening meal, but sat on one of the rude seats with which the little hut was furnished, gazing into the fire.

The girl’s heart beat quicker, as he said, “Miss Andres, I would like to ask your opinion in a matter that I cannot decide satisfactorily to myself.”

She took the seat on the other side of the rude fireplace.

“What is it, Mr. Marston?”

“I will put it in the form of a story,” he answered.  Then, after a wait of some minutes, as though he found it hard to begin, he said, “It is an old story, Miss Andres; a very common one, but with a difference.  A young man, with every chance in the world to go right, went wrong.  He was well-born.  He was fairly well educated.  His father was a man of influence and considerable means.  He had many friends, good and bad.  I do not think the man was intentionally bad, but I do not excuse him.  He was a fool—­that’s all—­a fool.  And, as fools must, he paid the price of his foolishness.