yes. Now and then we drifted apart, and were obliged
to call out so as to locate the others. We seemed to be traveling
across a deserted, noiseless land, the only sound the stumbling hoofs
of the horses, or the occasional tinkle of some near-by stream,
invisible in the darkness. Kennedy led the way, after I had confessed
my inability to do so, and, I think, must have remained afoot most of
the time, judging from the sound of his voice; advising us of the
pitfalls ahead. It was some hours before we finally emerged from this
broken land, and came forth onto a dry, rolling prairie, across which
we advanced at a somewhat swifter gait. In all this time I had never
relaxed my grip on the bridle-rein of Eloise's horse, drawing her up
close beside me, whenever the way permitted, conscious that she must
feel, even as I did, the terrible loneliness of our surroundings, and
the strain of this slow groping through the unknown. We conversed but
little, and then in whispers, and of inconsequential things--of hope
and fear, even of literature and music, of anything which would take
our minds off our present situation. I smiled afterwards to remember
the strange topics which came up between us in the midst of that gloom.
And yet, in some vague way, I comprehended that amid the silence, the
effort to converse, a bond was strengthening between us both--a bond
needing no words. It seemed to me that I could feel the beating of her
heart in response to my own; and that while to my eyes she was but a
mere outline, her features invisible, in imagination I looked into that
face again, and dreamed dreams the lips dared not express.

Surely we both understood. Even as I knew my own heart, I believed
that I knew hers. I do not think she cared then to conceal, or deny;
but, nevertheless, there existed continually between us a sinister
face, a leering, sarcastic face, with thin lips and sneering eyes
forever mocking--the hateful face of Joe Kirby. It was there before me
through all those hours, and I doubt not it mocked her with equal
persistency. Whenever I would speak, that memory locked my lips, so
that all I ventured upon was to quietly reach out my hand through the
darkness, and touch hers. Yet that was enough, for I felt her fingers
close on mine in silent welcome.

Yet, perhaps, I ought not to say that it was any memory of the gambler
which held me dumb. For it was not thought of the man, but rather of
the woman, whose honor I