hand closed over her wrist. He pulled, she
yielded. He felt her other hand laid on his. The touch seemed to sear
his flesh.

"You must not go," she whispered, "must not!"

He drew her farther from the door, toward himself.

"Must not!" she repeated. He could feel the breath of her whisper.

"Don't--Jack-leen!"

She barely heard the words, but she knew the agony there. And he, as he
gripped her wrist, sensed the throbbing that passed through her whole
body. For pity, he was powerless to thrust aside a lass who pitied him.

"It is that common, yes. It is not the instinct of----"

Yet, all the while, like another Brunhilde, she was praying in her heart
that she had not taunted him in vain. A very eerie Valkyrie, she had
taunted him to be the stronger, stronger than his will, stronger than
herself, to strive with her, to master her. And now she saw a fury of
love and hate aroused in him, a fury against herself for making him love
her more than his great will could bear. In her lust for seeing this
anger of his, she forgot her mission absolutely, forgot why she had come
to Mexico, forgot all but the prayer in her heart.

Nothing was left her but to learn the answer, and this she did, by
tugging firmly, coyly, to free her wrist. The answer was rapture; his
grip had tightened. She pulled harder, and felt herself being drawn
toward him. Yes, yes, her triumph was a fact. Slowly an arm of iron, a
tremulous, masterful vandal, circled her waist.

She pushed at him with her fists, and panting, tried to fight him off,
however the blood stung in her veins and coursed hot as in his. The
matter had gone far enough. It was time for explanations, for an
adjustment. But he did not seem to think so. He was relentless.
Barbarian Siegfried with the warrior virgin was not more so. The tendons
in that arm of his suddenly went rigid, and crushed her body against
him. It was then that a sudden horror took her, and she struggled like a
tigress. She gasped out a cry for help, but the scream had no volume.
Before she could try again, his hand covered her mouth.

And then, and then--oh, the words he was whispering! Even as he
smothered her shriek, she heard them.

"Well--we'll just have in Clem Douglas. You've seen Clem, little girl?
He's our parson."

His life long, Driscoll had never dreamed of heaven as he saw it then in
her eyes. Never, his whole life long, as she raised those eyes to his.
And the sweet relaxing of herself, the tru