Kells gave one astounded glance at her, and then, divining her purpose, he laughed thrillingly and mockingly, as if the sight of her was a spur, as if her courage was a thing to admire, to permit, and to regret.

“Cleve, my wife, Dandy Dale,” he said, suave and cool.  “Let her persuade you—­one way or another!”

The presence of a woman, however disguised, following her singular appeal, transformed Cleve.  He stiffened erect and the flush died out of his face, leaving it whiter than ever, and the eyes that had grown dull quickened and began to burn.  Joan felt her cheeks blanch.  She all but fainted under that gaze.  But he did not recognize her, though he was strangely affected.

“Wait!” she cried again, and she held to that high voice, so different from her natural tone.  “I’ve been listening.  I’ve heard all that’s been said.  Don’t join this Border Legion. ...  You’re young—­and still, honest.  For God’s sake—­don’t go the way of these men!  Kells will make you a bandit. ...  Go home—­boy—­go home!”

“Who are you—­to speak to me of honesty—­of home?” Cleve demanded.

“I’m only a—­a woman. ...  But I can feel how wrong you are. ...  Go back to that girl—­who—­who drove you to the border. ...  She must repent.  In a day you’ll be too late. ...  Oh, boy, go home!  Girls never know their minds—­their hearts.  Maybe your girl—­loved you! ...  Oh, maybe her heart is breaking now!”

A strong, muscular ripple went over Cleve, ending in a gesture of fierce protest.  Was it pain her words caused, or disgust that such as she dared mention the girl he had loved?  Joan could not tell.  She only knew that Cleve was drawn by her presence, fascinated and repelled, subtly responding to the spirit of her, doubting what he heard and believing with his eyes.

“You beg me not to become a bandit?” he asked, slowly, as if revolving a strange idea.

“Oh, I implore you!”

“Why?”

“I told you.  Because you’re still good at heart.  You’ve only been wild. ...  Because—­”

“Are you the wife of Kells?” he flashed at her.

A reply seemed slowly wrenched from Joan’s reluctant lips.  “No!”

The denial left a silence behind it.  The truth that all knew when spoken by her was a kind of shock.  The ruffians gaped in breathless attention.  Kells looked on with a sardonic grin, but he had grown pale.  And upon the face of Cleve shone an immeasurable scorn.

“Not his wife!” exclaimed Cleve, softly.

His tone was unendurable to Joan.  She began to shrink.  A flame curled within her.  How he must hate any creature of her sex!

“And you appeal to me!” he went on.  Suddenly a weariness came over him.  The complexity of women was beyond him.  Almost he turned his back upon her.  “I reckon such as you can’t keep me from Kells—­or blood—­or hell!”

“Then you’re a narrow-souled weakling—­born to crime!” she burst out in magnificent wrath.  “For however appearances are against me—­I am a good woman!”