They rode out of the cottonwood fringed arroyo just before moonrise, circling the town, Florrie scarcely marking whether they rode north or south.  But Galloway knew what he was doing and they turned slowly toward the southwest.  As they rode, his horse drawn in close to hers, he talked as he had never talked before; his voice rang from the first word with triumphant assurance.

“When he calls she will follow!” Virginia had thought fearfully of them.  To-night he was calling eloquently, she was following, frightened and yet obedient to his mastery.

Galloway’s influence over the girl, that of a strong will over a weak and fluttering one, was quite naturally the stronger when they were alone together.  She had always been willing, sometimes a bit eager, to make a hero of him; he had long thoroughly understood her.  To-night was the brief battle of wills, with him summoning all of his strength, flushed with victory.  Abruptly now he urged that she marry him; a moment later his insistent pleading was subtly tinged with command.  He was the arbiter of the hour; he told her of a priest waiting for them at a little village a dozen miles away.  They would be married to-night; they were eloping even at this palpitant instant!

When Florence would have stopped, of two balancing minds, he urged the horses on.  When she would have procrastinated, he beat down her opposition with the rush of his words.  Even while she struggled she was yielding; Galloway was quick to see how her resistance was growing fainter.  And all the time, while he spoke vehemently and she for the most part listened in a fascinated silence, they were riding on through the moonlit night. . . .  It seemed to her that surely he must love her as few men had loved before. . . .

The village he had promised her was in reality but two poor houses at a crossroads, inhabited by two Mexican men and dowdy women.  On the way they encountered but one horseman; Galloway turned his own and Florence’s animals out so that, though seen, they might escape recognition.  At the nearest of the two hovels he dismounted, raising his arms to her.  When she cried out and shrank back trembling, he laughed softly, caught her in his arms, and lifted her free of the saddle; when he would have kissed her she put her face into her two hands.

“I . . .  I want to go back!” she whispered.  “I am afraid!  Please, Mr. Galloway, please let me go home.”

Dogs were barking, a man and woman came out.  The man laughed.  Then he gathered up the bridle-reins and led the horses to the barn.  Florrie, shrinking out of Galloway’s embrace, looked particularly little and helpless in her pretty riding-habit.

She went with Galloway into the lamplighted room.  The woman looked at her curiously, then to Galloway, something of wonder and upstanding admiration in her beady eyes.

“Has the priest come?” demanded Galloway.