Joan felt a cold contraction of all her internal being, but outwardly she never so much as nicked an eyelash.  “My name’s Joan.”

“Joan!” He placed heavy, compelling hands on her shoulders and turned her squarely toward him.

Again she felt his gaze, strangely, like the reflection of sunlight from ice.  She had to look at him.  This was her supreme test.  For hours she had prepared for it, steeled herself, wrought upon all that was sensitive in her; and now she prayed, and swiftly looked up into his eyes.  They were windows of a gray hell.  And she gazed into that naked abyss, at that dark, uncovered soul, with only the timid anxiety and fear and the unconsciousness of an innocent, ignorant girl.

“Joan!  You know why I brought you here?”

“Yes, of course; you told me,” she replied, steadily.  “You want to ransom me for gold. ...  And I’m afraid you’ll have to take me home without getting any.”

“You know what I mean to do to you,” he went on, thickly.

“Do to me?” she echoed, and she never quivered a muscle.  “You—­you didn’t say. ...  I haven’t thought. ...  But you won’t hurt me, will you?  It’s not my fault if there’s no gold to ransom me.”

He shook her.  His face changed, grew darker.  “You know what I mean.”

“I don’t.”  With some show of spirit she essayed to slip out of his grasp.  He held her the tighter.

“How old are you?”

It was only in her height and development that Joan looked anywhere near her age.  Often she had been taken for a very young girl.

“I’m seventeen,” she replied.  This was not the truth.  It was a lie that did not falter on lips which had scorned falsehood.

“Seventeen!” he ejaculated in amaze.  “Honestly, now?”

She lifted her chin scornfully and remained silent.

“Well, I thought you were a woman.  I took you to be twenty-five—­at least twenty-two.  Seventeen, with that shape!  You’re only a girl—­a kid.  You don’t know anything.”

Then he released her, almost with violence, as if angered at her or himself, and he turned away to the horses.  Joan walked toward the little cabin.  The strain of that encounter left her weak, but once from under his eyes, certain that she had carried her point, she quickly regained her poise.  There might be, probably would be, infinitely more trying ordeals for her to meet than this one had been; she realized, however, that never again would she be so near betrayal of terror and knowledge and self.

The scene of her isolation had a curious fascination for her.  Something—­and she shuddered—­was to happen to her here in this lonely, silent gorge.  There were some flat stones made into a rude seat under the balsam-tree, and a swift, yard-wide stream of clear water ran by.  Observing something white against the tree, Joan went closer.  A card, the ace of hearts, had been pinned to the bark by a small cluster of bullet-holes, every one of which touched