from her knees, but she still clasped Kells. She seemed to
feel the mounting of his spirit, to understand how in this moment he was
rising out of the depths. How strangely glad she was for him!

"Joan, once you showed me what the love of a good woman really was. I've
never seen the same since then. I've grown better in one way--worse
in all others.... I let down. I was no man for the border. Always that
haunted me. Believe me, won't you--despite all?"

Joan felt the yearning in him for what he dared not ask. She read his
mind. She knew he meant, somehow, to atone for his wrong.

"I'll show you again," she whispered. "I'll tell you more. If I'd never
loved Jim Cleve--if I'd met you, I'd have loved you.... And, bandit or
not, I'd have gone with you to the end of the world!"

"Joan!" The name was almost a sob of joy and pain. Sight of his face
then blinded Joan with her tears. But when he caught her to him, in a
violence that was a terrible renunciation, she gave her embrace, her
arms, her lips without the vestige of a lie, with all of womanliness and
sweetness and love and passion. He let her go and turned away, and in
that instant Joan had a final divination that this strange man could
rise once to heights as supreme as the depths of his soul were dark.
She dashed away her tears and wiped the dimness from her eyes. Hope
resurged. Something strong and sweet gave her strength.

When Kells wheeled he was the Kells of her earlier experience--cool,
easy, deadly, with the smile almost amiable, and the strange, pale eyes.
Only the white radiance of him was different. He did not look at her.

"Jim, will you do exactly what I tell you?"

"Yes, I promise," replied Jim.

"How many guns have you?"

"Two."

"Give me one of them."

Cleve held out the gun that all the while he had kept in his hand. Kells
took it and put it in his pocket.

"Pull your other gun--be ready," said he, swiftly. "But don't you shoot
once till I go down!... Then do your best.... Save the last bullet for
Joan--in case--"

"I promise," replied Cleve, steadily.

Then Kells drew a knife from a sheath at his belt. It had a long, bright
blade. Joan had seen him use it many a time round the camp-fire. He
slipped the blade up his sleeve, retaining the haft of the knife in his
hand. He did not speak another word. Nor did he glance at Joan again.
She had felt his gaze while she had embraced him, as she raised her
lips. That look had been his last. Then