silence like that of Lost Canon, but a silence of solitude
where her soul stood alone. She was there on earth, yet no one could
hear her mortal cry. The thunder of avalanches or the boom of the sea
might have lessened her sense of utter loneliness.

And that silence fitted the darkness, and both were apostles of dread.
They spoke to her. She breathed dread on that silent air and it filled
her breast. There was nothing stable in the night shadows. The ravine
seemed to send forth stealthy, noiseless shapes, specter and human, man
and phantom, each on the other's trail.

If Jim would only come and let her see that he was safe for the hour! A
hundred times she imagined she saw him looming darker than the shadows.
She had only to see him now, to feel his hand, and dread might be lost.
Love was something beyond the grasp of mind. Love had confounded Jim
Cleve; it had brought up kindness and honor from the black depths of a
bandit's heart; it had transformed her from a girl into a woman. Surely
with all its greatness it could not be lost; surely in the end it must
triumph over evil.

Joan found that hope was fluctuating, but eternal. It took no stock of
intelligence. It was a matter of feeling. And when she gave rein to
it for a moment, suddenly it plunged her into sadness. To hope was to
think! Poor Jim! It was his fool's paradise. Just to let her be his
wife! That was the apex of his dream. Joan divined that he might yield
to her wisdom, he might become a man, but his agony would be greater.
Still, he had been so intense, so strange, so different that she could
not but feel joy in his joy.

Then at a soft footfall, a rustle, and a moving shadow Joan's mingled
emotions merged into a poignant sense of the pain and suspense and
tenderness of the actual moment.

"Joan--Joan," came the soft whisper.

She answered, and there was a catch in her breath.

The moving shadow split into two shadows that stole closer, loomed
before her. She could not tell which belonged to Jim till he touched
her. His touch was potent. It seemed to electrify her.

"Dearest, we're here--this is the parson," said Jim, like a happy boy.
"I--"

"Ssssh!" whispered Joan. "Not so loud.... Listen!"

Kells was holding a rendezvous with members of his Legion. Joan even
recognized his hard and somber tone, and the sharp voice of Red Pearce,
and the drawl of Handy Oliver.

"All right. I'll be quiet," responded Cleve, cautiously. "Joan, you're
to answe