ained that he had forgotten. The men had been
crazy--hard to manage--the issue was not yet settled. He spoke gently.
Suddenly he had that thoughtful mien which Joan had become used to
associating with weakness in him.

"I wish I hadn't dragged you here," he said, taking her hands. "It's too
late. I CAN'T lose you.... But the--OTHER WAY--isn't too late!"

"What way? What do you mean?" asked Joan.

"Girl, will you ride off with me to-night?" he whispered, hoarsely. "I
swear I'll marry you--and become an honest man. To-morrow will be too
late!... Will you?"

Joan shook her head. She was sorry for him. When he talked like this he
was not Kells, the bandit. She could not resist a strange agitation
at the intensity of his emotion. One moment he had entered--a bandit
leader, planning blood, murder; the next, as his gaze found her, he
seemed weakened, broken in the shaking grip of a hopeless love for her.

"Speak, Joan!" he said, with his hands tightening and his brow clouding.

"No, Kells," she replied.

"Why? Because I'm a red-handed bandit?"

"No. Because I--I don't love you."

"But wouldn't you rather be my wife--and have me honest--than become
a slave here, eventually abandoned to--to Gulden and his cave and his
rope?" Kells's voice rose as that other side of him gained dominance.

"Yes, I would.... But I KNOW you'll never harm me--or abandon me to--to
that Gulden."

"HOW do you know?" he cried, with the blood thick at his temples.

"Because you're no beast any more.... And you--you do love me."

Kells thrust her from him so fiercely that she nearly fell.

"I'll get over it.... Then--look out!" he said, with dark bitterness.

With that he waved her back, apparently ordering her to her cabin, and
turned to the door, through which the deep voices of men sounded nearer
and nearer.

Joan stumbled in the darkness up the rude steps to her room, and, softly
placing the poles in readiness to close her door, she composed herself
to watch and wait. The keen edge of her nerves, almost amounting to
pain, told her that this night of such moment for Kells would be one of
singular strain and significance for her. But why she could not fathom.
She felt herself caught by the changing tide of events--a tide that must
sweep her on to flood. Kells had gone outside. The strong, deep voices'
grew less distinct. Evidently the men were walking away. In her suspense
Joan was disappointed. Presently, however, they returned; they h