Exhausted mentally and physically, he lay quiet for a moment. Passive, he found himself able to think more clearly. It was barely possible that what could not be accomplished in one way might be in another. A rat was a small animal, and yet by industry and patience he generally managed to secure his ends. Bud had seen them by constant gnawing eat their way through oak beams that would have foiled the strength of a bear. A rope was made up of many fine strands. If a man could break them one by one, it was only a question of time when he would have them all severed. Bud squirmed his long fingers tipped with hard nails until they reached the hempen cords. Then he began to scratch against them--slowly, laboriously, painfully. It was a tedious process. But the rope was old. He could feel the outer strands fuzz up as he continued. He could also feel the calloused tips of his fingers quicken as the skin wore away. It was a question which would last the longer. It was a question how much time he had, anyway. But with those voices coming to him from the next room he must be doing something. And one can never tell. Gawd A’mighty, if he should get free--! CHAPTER XVIII Roxie Kester had ridden up here this evening sitting behind Bud and holding to the man’s big shoulders to keep from falling. Bud had kept the mare to a walk and they had journeyed in silence. She had not been afraid. This was not altogether because of her reliance on the long-bladed kitchen knife which she had slipped from her bundle and hidden in her bosom, although this had helped to steady her. But the deeper reason was that even on that long wild ride she had thought less of herself than of some one else. She had eliminated herself--as far as her future was concerned--the moment she left the house and joined this other. She had made her decision. She had made her sacrifice. Twice her Prince had risked his life for her and now she was risking her own for him. She was doing even more. There was a certainty here. A man may clash with another man--may clash even with a chestnut-oak--and escape. He is risking only his life. But a woman may not place herself in such a position as she was now in and avoid the consequences. However she protected herself until morning, it made the next step inevitable. Not to marry Bud the next day would be to stand disgraced. The only explanation she could give that would justify her conduct, she must not give. The toothless old gossips would roll the story around their tongues like snuff. A girl does not spend the night in a mountain shack unless she chooses. Yet Roxie was neither afraid nor depressed. She was in a state of exaltation paralleled only by religious ecstasy. Love--such romantic love as hers--is heroic. Heroism is nothing but complete and utter unselfishness. Her joy came in giving, not in asking. If she could not give herself to him she would give herself for him.