We became mere shadows, groping through the void, barely perceptible to our own strained eyes.  Now and then we drifted apart, and were obliged to call out so as to locate the others.  We seemed to be traveling across a deserted, noiseless land, the only sound the stumbling hoofs of the horses, or the occasional tinkle of some near-by stream, invisible in the darkness.  Kennedy led the way, after I had confessed my inability to do so, and, I think, must have remained afoot most of the time, judging from the sound of his voice; advising us of the pitfalls ahead.  It was some hours before we finally emerged from this broken land, and came forth onto a dry, rolling prairie, across which we advanced at a somewhat swifter gait.  In all this time I had never relaxed my grip on the bridle-rein of Eloise’s horse, drawing her up close beside me, whenever the way permitted, conscious that she must feel, even as I did, the terrible loneliness of our surroundings, and the strain of this slow groping through the unknown.  We conversed but little, and then in whispers, and of inconsequential things—­of hope and fear, even of literature and music, of anything which would take our minds off our present situation.  I smiled afterwards to remember the strange topics which came up between us in the midst of that gloom.  And yet, in some vague way, I comprehended that amid the silence, the effort to converse, a bond was strengthening between us both—­a bond needing no words.  It seemed to me that I could feel the beating of her heart in response to my own; and that while to my eyes she was but a mere outline, her features invisible, in imagination I looked into that face again, and dreamed dreams the lips dared not express.

Surely we both understood.  Even as I knew my own heart, I believed that I knew hers.  I do not think she cared then to conceal, or deny; but, nevertheless, there existed continually between us a sinister face, a leering, sarcastic face, with thin lips and sneering eyes forever mocking—­the hateful face of Joe Kirby.  It was there before me through all those hours, and I doubt not it mocked her with equal persistency.  Whenever I would speak, that memory locked my lips, so that all I ventured upon was to quietly reach out my hand through the darkness, and touch hers.  Yet that was enough, for I felt her fingers close on mine in silent welcome.

Yet, perhaps, I ought not to say that it was any memory of the gambler which held me dumb.  For it was not thought of the man, but rather of the woman, whose honor I felt bound to guard by closed lips.  Some instinct of my own higher nature, or some voiceless message from her personality, told me the line of safety—­told me that she would secretly resent any familiarity she was not free to welcome.  She might ride through the black night beside me, our hands clasped in friendship, our hearts thrilling with hope.  We could understand, could dream the dream of ages together—­and yet, this was not now to be expressed in words; and there must still remain between us a barrier blacker than the night.  She needed not to tell me this truth—­I felt it; felt it in the purity of her soul, her silence, her perfect trust in me.  For this I knew, then and forever—­only by respect could I win the love of her.  This knowledge was restraint enough.