Dark and terrible the man arose.

"Girl," he said, hoarsely. "To-night--to-night--I'll. ... What have
you done to me? One more day--and I'll be mad to do right by you--
instead of WRONG. ... Do you understand that?"

Joan leaned forward in the camp-fire light with outstretched hands
and quivering lips, as overcome by his halting confession of one
last remnant of honor as she was by the dark hint of his passion.

"No--no--I don't understand--nor believe!" she cried. "But you
frighten me--so! I am all--all alone with you here. You said I'd be
safe. Don't--don't--"

Her voice broke then and she sank back exhausted in her seat.
Probably Kells had heard only the first words of her appeal, for he
took to striding back and forth in the circle of the camp-fire
light. The scabbard with the big gun swung against his leg. It grew
to be a dark and monstrous thing in Joan's sight. A marvelous
intuition born of that hour warned her of Kells's subjection to the
beast in him, even while, with all the manhood left to him, he still
battled against it. Her girlish sweetness and innocence had availed
nothing, except mock him with the ghost of dead memories. He could
not be won or foiled. She must get her hands on that gun--kill him--
or--! The alternative was death for herself. And she leaned there,
slowly gathering all the unconquerable and unquenchable forces of a
woman's nature, waiting, to make one desperate, supreme, and final
effort.