But the man was no longer to be denied; he kept on urging: 

“One kiss, only one.”

Here was an appeal which could no longer be resisted, and though half-frightened by the tone of his voice and the look in his eye, the Girl let herself be taken into his arms as she murmured: 

“’Tain’t no use, I lay down my hands to you.”

And so it was that, unconscious of the great havoc that was being wrought by the storm, unconscious of the danger that momentarily threatened their lives, they remained locked in each other’s arms.  The Girl made no attempt to silence him now or withdraw her hands from his.  Why should she?  Had he not come to Cloudy Mountain to woo her?  Was she not awaiting his coming?  To her it seemed but natural that the conventions should be as nothing in the face of love.  His voice, low and musical, charged with passion, thrilled through her.

“I love you,” said the man, with a note of possession that frightened her while it filled her with strange, sweet joy.  For months she had dreamed of him and loved him; no wonder that she looked upon him as her hero and yielded herself entirely to her fate.

She lifted her eyes and he saw the love in them.  She freed her hands from his grasp, and then gave them back to him in a little gesture of surrender.

“Yes, you’re mine, an’ I’m yours,” she said with trembling lips.

“I have lived but for this from the moment that I first saw you,” he told her, softly.

“Me, too—­seein’ that I’ve prayed for it day an’ night,” she acknowledged, her eyes seeking his.

“Our destinies have brought us together; whatever happens now I am content,” he said, pressing his lips once more to hers.  A little while later he added:  “My darkest hour will be lightened by the memory of you, to-night.”

XII.

The clock, striking the hour of two, filled in a lull that might otherwise have seemed to require conversation.  For some minutes, Johnson, raised to a higher level of exaltation, even, than was the Girl, had been secretly rejoicing in the Fate that had brought them together.

“It’s wonderful that I should have found her at last and won her love,” he soliloquised.  “We must be Fortune’s children—­she and I.”

The minutes ticked away and still they were silent.  Then, of a sudden, with infinite tenderness in his voice, Johnson asked: 

“What is your name, Girl—­your real name?”

“Min—­Minnie; my father’s name was Smith,” she told him, her eyes cast down under delicately tremulous lids.

“Oh, Minnie Sm—­”

“But ’twa’n’t his right name,” quickly corrected the Girl, and unconsciously both rose to their feet.  “His right name was Falconer.”

“Minnie Falconer—­well, that is a pretty name,” commented Johnson; and raising her hand to his lips he pressed them against it.