The large room was lighted by a fire and half a dozen lanterns.  Through a faint tinge of blue smoke Joan saw men standing and sitting and lounging around Kells, who had a seat where the light fell full upon him.  Evidently a lull had intervened in the talk.  The dark faces Joan could see were all turned toward the door expectantly.

“Bring him in, Bate, and let’s look him over,” said Kells.

Then Bate Wood appeared, elbowing his way in, and he had his hand on the arm of a tall, lithe fellow.  When they got into the light Joan quivered as if she had been stabbed.  That stranger with Wood was Jim Cleve—­Jim Cleve in frame and feature, yet not the same she knew.

“Cleve, glad to meet you,” greeted Kells, extending his hand.

“Thanks.  Same to you,” replied Cleve, and he met the proffered hand.  His voice was cold and colorless, unfamiliar to Joan.  Was this man really Jim Cleve?

The meeting of Kells and Cleve was significant because of Kells’s interest and the silent attention of the men of his clan.  It did not seem to mean anything to the white-faced, tragic-eyed Cleve.  Joan gazed at him with utter amazement.  She remembered a heavily built, florid Jim Cleve, an overgrown boy with a good-natured, lazy smile on his full face and sleepy eyes.  She all but failed to recognize him in the man who stood there now, lithe and powerful, with muscles 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