Prosper's face wore its old look of the winged demon. He was cold in

his angry pain.

"Just one thing to your man, perhaps, if you will allow me, but

perhaps you'll tell him that yourself. That his method is the right

one, I admit. But in one respect not even a brand will altogether

preserve property rights. Morena could say something on that score. So

could I...."

"Hush!" said Joan; "I will tell him myself. Pierre, I left you for

dead and I went away with this man, and after a while, because I

thought you were dead, and because I was alone and sorrowful and weak,

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and because, perhaps, of what my mother was, I--I--" She fell away

from Pierre, crouched against the side of the door, and wrapped the

curtain round her face. "He told me you were dead--" The words came

muffled.

Pierre had let her go and turned to Prosper. His own face was a mask

of rage. Prosper knew that it was the Westerner's intention to kill.

For a minute, no longer, he was a lightning channel of death. But

Pierre, the Pierre shaped during the last four difficult years, turned

upon his own writhing, savage soul and forced it to submit. It was as

though he fought with his hands. Sweat broke out on him. At last, he

stood and looked at Prosper with sane, stern eyes.

"If that's true what you hinted, if that's true what she was tryin' to

tell, if it's even partly true," he said painfully, "then it was me

that brought it upon her, not you--an' not herself, but me."

He turned back to Joan, drew the curtain from her face, drew down her

hands, lifted her and carried her to the couch beside the fire.

There she shrank away from him, tried to push him back.

"It's true, Pierre; not that about Morena, but the rest is true. It's

true. Only he told me you were dead. But you weren't--no, don't take

my hands, I never did have dealings with Holliwell. Indeed, I loved

only you. But you must have known me better than I knew myself. For I

am bad. I am bad. I left you for dead and I went away."

He had mastered her hands, both of them in one of his, and he drew

them close to his heart.

"Don't Joan! Hush, Joan! You mustn't. It was my doings, gel, all of

it. Hush!"

He bent and crushed his lips against hers, silencing her. Then she

gave way and clung to him, sobbing.




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