had a command here been disobeyed. He could scarcely believe his own
senses.

"You know what to do, then," he said sharply.

For the first time a touch of color came into the woman's cheeks, and
catching the man's eyes she looked into them unfalteringly.

"Since when did I become your slave, Tom Blair?" she asked slowly.

The words were a challenge, the tone was that of some wild thing,
wounded, cornered, staring death in the face, but defiant to the end.
"Since when did you become my owner, body and soul?"

Any sportsman, any being with a fragment of admiration for even animal
courage, would have held aloof then. It remained for this man, bred amid
high civilization, who had spent years within college halls, to strike
the prostrate. As in the frontier saloon, so now his hand went
involuntarily to his throat, clutched at the binding collar until the
button flew; then, as before, his face went white.

"Since when!" he blazed, "since when! I admire your nerve to ask that
question of me! Since six years ago, when you first began living with
me. Since the day when you and the boy,--and not a preacher within a
hundred miles--" Words, a flood of words, were upon his lips; but
suddenly he stopped. Despite the alcohol still in his brain, despite the
effort he made to continue, the gaze of the woman compelled silence.

"You dare recall that memory, Tom Blair?" The words came more slowly
than before, and with an intensity that burned them into the hearer's