Part 38 (1/2)

Oliver spoke with a rude and impressive dignity. When he ended he strode out into the sunlight.

Kells was shaken by this forceful speech, yet he was not in any sense a broken man. ”Joan--you heard Pearce,” said he, pa.s.sionately. ”He lied about you. I had to kill him. He hinted--Oh, the low-lived dog! He could not know a good woman. He lied--and there he is--dead! I wouldn't fetch him back for a hundred Legions!”

”But it--it wasn't--all--a lie,” said Joan, and her words came haltingly because a force stronger than her cunning made her speak. She had reached a point where she could not deceive Kells to save her life.

”WHAT!” he thundered.

”Pearce told the truth--except that no one ever climbed in my window.

That's false. No one could climb in. It's too small.... But I did whisper--to someone.”

Kells had to moisten his lips to speak. ”Who?”

”I'll never tell you.”

”Who?... I'll kill him!”

”No--no. I won't tell. I won't let you kill another man on my account.”

”I'll choke it out of you.”

”You can't. There's no use to threaten me, or hurt me, either.”

Kells seemed dazed. ”Whisper! For hours! In the dark!... But, Joan, what for? Why such a risk?”

Joan shook her head.

”Were you just unhappy--lonesome? Did some young miner happen to see you there in daylight--then come at night? Wasn't it only accident? Tell me.”

”I won't--and I won't because I don't want you to spill more blood.”

”For my sake,” he queried, with the old, mocking tone. Then he grew dark with blood in his face, fierce with action of hands and body as he bent nearer her. ”Maybe you like him too well to see him shot?... Did you--whisper often to this stranger?”

Joan felt herself weakening. Kells was so powerful in spirit and pa.s.sion that she seemed unable to fight him. She strove to withhold her reply, but it burst forth, involuntarily.

”Yes--often.”

That roused more than anger and pa.s.sion. Jealousy flamed from him and it transformed him into a devil.

”You held hands out of that window--and kissed--in the dark?” he cried, with working lips.

Joan had thought of this so fearfully and intensely--she had battled so to fortify herself to keep it secret--that he had divined it, had read her mind. She could not control herself. The murder of Pearce had almost overwhelmed her. She had not the strength to bite her tongue. Suggestion alone would have drawn her then--and Kells's pa.s.sionate force was hypnotic.

”Yes,” she whispered.

He appeared to control a developing paroxysm of rage.

”That settles you,” he declared darkly. ”But I'll do one more decent thing by you. I'll marry you.” Then he wheeled to his men. ”Blicky, there's a parson down in camp. Go on the run. Fetch him back if you have to push him with a gun.”

Blicky darted through the door and his footsteps thudded out of hearing.

”You can't force me to marry you,” said Joan. ”I--I won't open my lips.”