Joan, agitated as she was, could not help but see the effect of her unexpected and unconscious girlishness.  She comprehended that with the mind of the woman which had matured in her.  Like Kells, she too, had different personalities.

“I’m trying to be decent to you,” went on Kells, without turning.  “I want to give you a chance to make the best of a bad situation.  But you’re a kid—­a girl! ...  And I’m a bandit.  A man lost to all good, who means to have you!”

“But you’re not lost to all good,” replied Joan, earnestly.  “I can’t understand what I do feel.  But I know—­if it had been Gulden instead of you—­that I wouldn’t have tried to hide my—­myself behind this blanket.  I’m no longer—­afraid of you.  That’s why I acted—­so—­just like a girl caught. ...  Oh! can’t you see!”

“No, I can’t see,” he replied.  “I wish I hadn’t fetched you here.  I wish the thing hadn’t happened.  Now it’s too late.”

“It’s never too late. ...  You—­you haven’t harmed me yet.”

“But I love you,” he burst out.  “Not like I have.  Oh!  I see this—­ that I never really loved any woman before.  Something’s gripped me.  It feels like that rope at my throat—­when they were going to hang me.”

Then Joan trembled in the realization that a tremendous passion had seized upon this strange, strong man.  In the face of it she did not know how to answer him.  Yet somehow she gathered courage in the knowledge.

Kells stood silent a long moment, looking out at the green slope.  And then, as if speaking to himself, he said:  “I stacked the deck and dealt myself a hand—­a losing hand—­and now I’ve got to play it!”

With that he turned to Joan.  It was the piercing gaze he bent upon her that hastened her decision to resume the part she had to play.  And she dropped the blanket.  Kells’s gloom and that iron hardness vanished.  He smiled as she had never seen him smile.  In that and his speechless delight she read his estimate of her appearance; and, notwithstanding the unwomanliness of her costume, and the fact of his notorious character, she knew she had never received so great a compliment.  Finally he found his voice.

“Joan, if you’re not the prettiest thing I ever saw in my life!”

“I can’t get used to this outfit,” said Joan.  “I can’t—­I won’t go away from this room in it.”

“Sure you will.  See here, this’ll make a difference, maybe.  You’re so shy.”

He held out a wide piece of black felt that evidently he had cut from a sombrero.  This he measured over her forehead and eyes, and then taking his knife he cut it to a desired shape.  Next he cut eyeholes in it and fastened to it a loop made of a short strip of buckskin.

“Try that. ...  Pull it down—­even with your eyes.  There!—­take a look at yourself.”

Joan faced the mirror and saw merely a masked stranger.  She was no longer Joan Randle.  Her identity had been absolutely lost.