you. Oh, I do-with all my soul. It was noble of you. Father is

overcome. He didn't expect so much. And he'll be true. But,
Duane, I was told to hurry, and here I'm selfishly using time."

"Go, then--and leave me. You mustn't unnerve me now, when
there's a desperate game to finish."

"Need it be desperate?" she whispered, coming close to him.
"Yes; it can't be else."

MacNelly had sent her to weaken him; of that Duane was sure.
And he felt that she had wanted to come. Her eyes were dark,

strained, beautiful, and they shed a light upon Duane he had
never seen before.

"You're going to take some mad risk," she said. "Let me
persuade you not to. You said--you cared for me--and I--oh,

Duane--don't you--know--?"
The low voice, deep, sweet as an old chord, faltered and broke

and failed.
Duane sustained a sudden shock and an instant of paralyzed

confusion of thought.
She moved, she swept out her hands, and the wonder of her eyes

dimmed in a flood of tears.
"My God! You can't care for me?" he cried, hoarsely.

Then she met him, hands outstretched.
"But I do-I do!"

Swift as light Duane caught her and held her to his breast. He
stood holding her tight, with the feel of her warm, throbbing

breast and the clasp of her arms as flesh and blood realities
to fight a terrible fear. He felt her, and for the moment the

might of it was stronger than all the demons that possessed
him. And he held her as if she had been his soul, his strength

on earth, his hope of Heaven, against his lips.
The strife of doubt all passed. He found his sight again. And

there rushed over him a tide of emotion unutterably sweet and
full, strong like an intoxicating wine, deep as his nature,

something glorious and terrible as the blaze of the sun to one
long in darkness. He had become an outcast, a wanderer, a

gunman, a victim of circumstances; he had lost and suffered
worse than death in that loss; he had gone down the endless

bloody trail, a killer of men, a fugitive whose mind slowly and
inevitably closed to all except the instinct to survive and a

black despair; and now, with this woman in his arms, her
swelling breast against his, in this moment almost of

resurrection, he bent under the storm of passion and joy
possible only to him who had endured so much.

"Do you care--a little?" he whispered, unsteadily.
He bent over her, looking deep into the dark wet eyes.

She uttered a low laugh that was half sob, and her arms slipped
up to his neck.

"A littler Oh, Duane--Duane--a great deal!"
Their lips met in their first kiss. The sweetness, the fire of

her mouth seemed so new, so strange, so irresistible to Duane.
His sore and hungry heart throbbed with thick and heavy beats.

He felt the outcast's need of love. And he gave up to the
enthralling moment. She met him half-way, returned kiss for

kiss, clasp for clasp, her face scarlet, her eyes closed, till,
her passion and strength spent, she fell back upon his

shoulder.
Duane suddenly thought she was going to faint. He divined then

that she had understood him, would have denied him nothing, not
even her life, in that moment. But she was overcome, and he

suffered a pang of regret at his unrestraint.
Presently she recovered, and she drew only the closer, and

leaned upon him with her face upturned. He felt her hands on
his, and they were soft, clinging, strong, like steel under

velvet. He felt the rise and fall, the warmth of her breast. A
tremor ran over him. He tried to draw back, and if he succeeded

a little her form swayed with him, pressing closer. She held
her face up, and he was compelled to look. It was wonderful

now: white, yet glowing, with the red lips parted, and dark
eyes alluring. But that was not all. There was passion,

unquenchable spirit, woman's resolve deep and mighty.
"I love you, Duane!" she said. "For my sake don't go out to

meet this outlaw face to face. It's something wild in you.
Conquer it if you love me."

Duane became suddenly weak, and when he did take her into his
arms again he scarcely had strength to lift her to a seat

beside him. She seemed more than a dead weight. Her calmness
had fled. She was throbbing, palpitating, quivering, with hot

wet cheeks and arms that clung to him like vines. She lifted
her mouth to his, whispering, "Kiss me!" She meant to change

him, hold him.
Duane bent down, and her arms went round his neck and drew him

close. With his lips on hers he seemed to float away. That kiss
closed his eyes, and he could not lift his head. He sat

motionless holding her, blind and helpless, wrapped in a sweet
dark glory. She kissed him--one long endless kiss--or else a

thousand times. Her lips, her wet cheeks, her hair, the
softness, the fragrance of her, the tender clasp of her arms,

the swell of her breast--all these seemed to inclose him.
Duane could not put her from him. He yielded to her lips and

arms, watching her, involuntarily returning her caresses, sure
now of her intent, fascinated by the sweetness of her,

bewildered, almost lost. This was what it was to be loved by a
woman. His years of outlawry had blotted out any boyish love he

might have known. This was what he had to give up--all this
wonder of her sweet person, this strange fire he feared yet

loved, this mate his deep and tortured soul recognized. Never
until that moment had he divined the meaning of a woman to a

man. That meaning was physicalinasmuch that he learned what
beauty was, what marvel in the touch of quickening flesh; and

it was spiritual in that he saw there might have been for him,
under happier circumstances, a life of noble deeds lived for

such a woman.
"Don't go! Don't go!" she cried, as he started violently.

"I must. Dear, good-by! Remember I loved your"
He pulled her hands loose from his, stepped back.

"Ray, dearest--I believe--I'll come back!" he whispered.
These last words were falsehood.

He reached the door, gave her one last piercing glance, to fix
for ever in memory that white face with its dark, staring,

tragic eyes.
"DUANE!"

He fled with that moan like thunder, death, hell in his ears.
To forget her, to get back his nerve, he forced into mind the

image of Poggin-Poggin, the tawny-haired, the yellow-eyed, like
a jaguar, with his rippling muscles. He brought back his sense

of the outlaw's wonderful presence, his own unaccountable fear
and hate. Yes, Poggin had sent the cold sickness of fear to his

marrow. Why, since he hated life so? Poggin was his supreme
test. And this abnormal and stupendousinstinct, now deep as

the very foundation of his life, demanded its wild and fatal
issue. There was a horriblethrill in his sudden remembrance

that Poggin likewise had been taunted in fear of him.
So the dark tide overwhelmed Duane, and when he left the room

he was fierce, implacable, steeled to any outcome, quick like a
panther, somber as death, in the thrall of his strange passion.