An overpowering sense of helplessness pressed down upon him. Never before had he faced a situation, however desperate, where he could not find relief in physical action. Always there was something to break through or down; always there was a shooting chance. But here there was nothing to strike; nothing over which a rifle bullet had any control. He could still carry her off, to be sure, but what would he be carrying? Just the shell of her, and this love of his was genuine enough to turn away from that. He wanted more, but the more that he wanted could not be taken. He could have it only as it was given. And no man can force a gift. Here was an idea new to Bud Childers; all that a woman has of love worth while must come to a man as a gift. Love is not anything to be seized with the hands. It is not the flower; it is the perfume of the flower. It is not the hair, the lips, the hands, but the soul. Else one woman would be like another woman and not worth the struggle. It was quite useless for Bud to carry the girl any farther back into the hills. He must allow her to return to her own. But after that--what of himself? Bud’s eyes wandered a moment--from the frightened girl to the heavy forest growth surrounding her. The trees had always been his friends. He had played among them as a child, hunted among them as a boy, and lived among them as a man. They had furnished him a home, food, protection, and companionship. But they failed him now. They offered no encouragement. They remained as blank and as dumb as so many trees. They turned to Roxie rather than to him. Perhaps this was in revenge for the axe he had driven deep into the heart of so many of their fellows. He raised his eyes to a squirrel frolicking among the branches--a red boomer who chattered saucily in his face. He raised his eyes to the sky and the sky gave him no answer. He was conscious of a deep and awful sense of desolation--as though he had suddenly been abandoned by all creation. He wasn’t much on religion, but there was something of religion in his feeling. Gawd A’mighty was getting his revenge. He was alone as he had never been alone--alone even here in his own mountain country. And his long face grew haggard at the thought. Bud Childers brought his eyes back to Roxie. He found her still watching him--suspiciously, alertly. Her eyes stabbed like knives. He could bear it no longer. With a suppressed cry, he tossed the gun to her feet. “Shoot ef yuh want!” he cried. “Shoot an’ hev done with hit.”