“The world seems very far away,” he muttered, “but it’s there—­and I’m not yet done with it.  Perhaps I never shall be....Only—­how glorious it would be to live here always and never think again!”

Whereupon the resurging reality of the present, as if in irony of his wish, steeped him instantly in contending thought.  Out of it all he presently evolved these things:  he must go to Cottonwoods; he must bring supplies back to Surprise Valley; he must cultivate the soil and raise corn and stock, and, most imperative of all, he must decide the future of the girl who loved him and whom he loved.  The first of these things required tremendous effort, the last one, concerning Bess, seemed simply and naturally easy of accomplishment.  He would marry her.  Suddenly, as from roots of poisonous fire, flamed up the forgotten truth concerning her.  It seemed to wither and shrivel up all his joy on its hot, tearing way to his heart.  She had been Oldring’s Masked Rider.  To Venters’s question, “What were you to Oldring?” she had answered with scarlet shame and drooping head.

“What do I care who she is or what she was!” he cried, passionately.  And he knew it was not his old self speaking.  It was this softer, gentler man who had awakened to new thoughts in the quiet valley.  Tenderness, masterful in him now, matched the absence of joy and blunted the knife-edge of entering jealousy.  Strong and passionate effort of will, surprising to him, held back the poison from piercing his soul.

“Wait!...Wait!” he cried, as if calling.  His hand pressed his breast, and he might have called to the pang there.  “Wait!  It’s all so strange—­so wonderful.  Anything can happen.  Who am I to judge her?  I’ll glory in my love for her.  But I can’t tell it—­can’t give up to it.”

Certainly he could not then decide her future.  Marrying her was impossible in Surprise Valley and in any village south of Sterling.  Even without the mask she had once worn she would easily have been recognized as Oldring’s Rider.  No man who had ever seen her would forget her, regardless of his ignorance as to her sex.  Then more poignant than all other argument was the fact that he did not want to take her away from Surprise Valley.  He resisted all thought of that.  He had brought her to the most beautiful and wildest place of the uplands; he had saved her, nursed her back to strength, watched her bloom as one of the valley lilies; he knew her life there to be pure and sweet—­she belonged to him, and he loved her.  Still these were not all the reasons why he did not want to take her away.  Where could they go?  He feared the rustlers—­he feared the riders—­he feared the Mormons.  And if he should ever succeed in getting Bess safely away from these immediate perils, he feared the sharp eyes of women and their tongues, the big outside world with its problems of existence.  He must wait to decide her future, which, after all, was deciding his own.  But between her future and his something hung impending.  Like Balancing Rock, which waited darkly over the steep gorge, ready to close forever the outlet to Deception Pass, that nameless thing, as certain yet intangible as fate, must fall and close forever all doubts and fears of the future.