ow hit, when I once git ye cross the state line--cuss
ye! Ye'll find I hain't so damned shy, arter all!"

Plutina cowered before the savage threat in the words. There was no
mistaking the expression in the lustful eyes burning on her. His
regard was in itself contamination. It was the prophecy of worse, of
the final wickedness, to come. The afflicted girl thrilled with
loathing before the satyr-like aspect of this man, foul of flesh and
soul. But, along with abhorrence of the creature who held her in his
keeping so ruthlessly, there was another emotion--that recurrent
wonder concerning such delay in the base gratification craved by his
passion. She could not doubt the fierce longing that seethed in his
veins. It was like a visible thing flaming from him; and tangible, for
she felt the impact of those brutal desires thronging against the
white shield of her own purity, powerless to penetrate, yet nauseating
her by the unclean impact. What, then, interposed to check him? What
hidden force held him back from working his will against her? She
could make no surmise. Certainly, here was no physical restraint to
stay him. As certainly, no moral reason would be of effect. The thing
was altogether mysterious. So, she marveled mightily, and was curious
to understand, even while she thanked God for the further respite. And
now, too, hope began to burn again. Surely, if she were to accompany
him on the trails as he had said, there would come the opportunity for
escape. He could not be on guard ceaselessly. Vigilance must relax on
occasion. It would not be then as here in this dreadful cavern,
perched 'twixt earth and sky.... She broke off to listen, for the
outlaw, having filled his pipe and drained a deep draught of the
liquor, was become loquacious again. This time, thanks to the drink,
he waxed confidential, intimate even.

"I kin git away from hyar, an' no damned dawg kain't foller my tracks,
nuther. Er if he does, he'll drap inter the Devil's Kittle. But I
knows my way 'bout in these-hyar mountings. An' ye needn't be afeared
o' losin' me, Honey. I'll hang onto ye good an' tight. When I git ye
over the line, I'll have a parson, if ye want. I hain't a-keerin' one
way, or t'other. But I got to have ye, willin' or not willin', parson
or no parson. I'd hev ye t'-night if 'twan't fer jest one cussed
thing. Hit's a'mighty hard to hev yer blood a-b'ilin', till ye're like
to bust jest 'cause of a slip of a gal, what ye could smash in