bulging in his coarse, white shirt. Joan's gaze swept over him, up
and down, shivering at the two heavy guns he packed, till it was
transfixed on his face. The old, or the other, Jim Cleve had been
homely, with too much flesh on his face to show force or fire. This
man seemed beautiful. But it was a beauty of tragedy. He was as
white as Kells, but smoothly, purely white, without shadow or
sunburn. His lips seemed to have set with a bitter, indifferent
laugh. His eyes looked straight out, piercing, intent, haunted, and
as dark as night. Great blue circles lay under them, lending still
further depth and mystery. It was a sad, reckless face that wrung
Joan's very heartstrings. She had come too late to save his
happiness, but she prayed that it was not too late to save his honor
and his soul.

While she gazed there had been further exchange of speech between
Kells and Cleve, and she had heard, though not distinguished, what
was said. Kells was unmistakably friendly, as were the other men
within range of Joan's sight. Cleve was surrounded; there were
jesting and laughter; and then he was led to the long table where
several men were already gambling.

Joan dropped the curtain, and in the darkness of her cabin she saw
that white, haunting face, and when she covered her eyes she still
saw it. The pain, the reckless violence, the hopeless indifference,
the wreck and ruin in that face had been her doing. Why? How had Jim
Cleve wronged her? He had loved her at her displeasure and had
kissed her against her will. She had furiously upbraided him, and
when he had finally turned upon her, threatening to prove he was no
coward, she had scorned him with a girl's merciless injustice. All
her strength and resolve left her, momentarily, after seeing Jim