arm led her along the ridge. They passed about a wind-worn rock, and
Gloria looked back, hoping that it had hidden them already from Brodie;
she saw his head over the top of it, felt upon her the eyes which she
could not see, lost as they were under his hat-brim and hurried on. She
ran ahead now with King hastening his step to overtake her.

_Chapter X_

That night when King and Gloria said "good-night" an odd constraint lay
over them. To Gloria, King seemed stiff and preoccupied; she herself had
red spots in her cheeks and was nervously tense. The abrupt approach of
Brodie with his repulsive face--at a moment when the world swirled away
from her underfoot and a divine madness was in her blood--the reaction
and revulsion--all this and the resultant conflict of emotions had worn
her out. She was sure of nothing in all the world--for once was not in
the least certain of herself--when she drew her hand out of King's and
hastened to her guests in the house. It was with a sense of relief that
she heard the door close, shutting her in with familiar, homey objects
and faces, opposing its barrier against the wilderness and a man who was
a part of the wilderness. She knew that King was going back to the
mountains; she knew when he left, going swiftly and silently, like a
shadow among shadows; she knew that this time he went armed, carrying
her father's rifle.

For Mark King knew that it was inevitable that his path and Swen
Brodie's should run closer and closer; that trails made by two men like
King and Brodie could never converge harmoniously; that there was too
much at stake; that it was well to be ready for Brodie in an ugly mood
in an encounter so far removed from the habitations of men that a deed
done would pass without human commentary.

A week passed and Gloria went back to San Francisco. These had been
seven days and nights of uncertainty for her, and had brought hours of
confusion that mounted into bewilderment. She had sung and danced and
flirted as even Gloria Gaynor had never done before; she had made
Gratton sure of her and his eyes had smouldered and his chalky pale face
had flushed; she had sent him off, gnawing at his nails; she had made
other young laughter rise like echoes of her own; she had sighed and sat
long hours at her window, wondering, wondering, wondering. In the end
she had gone, leaving her little note for Mark King.

King did not return to the log house. He knew that long ago Gloria wo