acrid smell of the tobacco-smoke came to her nostrils,
strangely home-like in this weird prison cell, aloft within the crags.
She perceived, with infinite relief, that for the moment he appeared
absorbed in his thoughts, disregardful of her presence. At least, she
would have opportunity to fortify her spirit against the fear that
beset her. She must ape bravery, even though she sickened with
terror. Thus only could she hope to daunt the creature that threatened
her. She had only moral strength with which to resist him. Physically,
she would be as a child in his grasp, notwithstanding her quick, firm
muscles. In a bodily contest, there could be but the single issue, her
vanquishment. It would be hardly more than sport to him, the utmost of
her frenzied strugglings. She saw the bloody marks of her fingers on
his face, and remembered his stolid seeming of indifference to her
fury. He had scorned her strength then. So, he would continue to scorn
it--with reason, since it could by no means avail against him. No, she
must have recourse to strength of will rather, to awe and intimidate
him. She knew the folly of such means against the brutal desire of the
man. But she clung to it as a meed of hope, because she had naught
else to which to cling. Without a hope, even the falsest, she must
have gone mad.

One thing seemed favoring for the time. The man was evidently sober.
Plutina wondered at that, for Hodges was not often sober, and excess
of liquor was an accustomed part in all his pleasures. His abstinence
now puzzled her, but it relieved her, too, since it promised some
postponement of his worst advances. Thus encouraged, she set herself
to review the situation in detail, in forlorn attempt to come on a way
of escape. But a half-hour of effort left her distraught. She could
devise nothing to suit her need. Only one thought remained for
tragical comfort in her wretchedness: In her last extremity, she might
cast herself from the cliff. Better a thousand times clean death than
defilement.... Plutina remembered her grandfather's regret over her
having spared the outlaw. Now, with her finger on the trigger, there
would have been no faltering, only joy and thanksgiving.

The defenseless girl watched furtively. When, at last, Hodges stirred
from his indolent sprawl, knocked the dottle from his pipe, and looked
up at her, she shrank visibly. The blood rushed back to her heart in a
flood, leaving her pallid, and she was trembling. Ev