(Bud was still clawing, clawing, clawing. It hurt. It hurt like the devil now. He writhed under a new torture. He paused for breath as he heard their voices in long-continued conversation. They gave him a new incentive. He gathered himself together and throwing into the effort every ounce of his strength he strained once again at the weakened strands.) Allston turned from the girl and paced the room once across and back. The story she had just told came like a shock. It hurt, in a way, his pride. It was a blow at his ideals. If at first it did not sound plausible, it sounded upon second thought more plausible than the original interpretation he had given. Natives, after all, were natives in whatever part of the country they lived and however good to look upon they were. It was perfectly normal for her to fall in love with one of her own. And this man Bud, if no better than most of his fellows hereabouts, was not much worse as far as his observation of the last few weeks went. He was a little more autocratic and domineering than some, but he liked him for that. Howe had spoken of him as “bad,” but without much concrete evidence except for the story that he had once killed a man. To Allston that did not sound as significant as it might have done a few years back. He himself had killed his man. In battle, to be sure, but so was Bud probably in a battle of his own. Allston came back to his original position before Roxie. It was as though she had grown older in the last few minutes. She did not stand as straight. And so he suddenly saw her as fitting almost perfectly into these surroundings. “So that is it, Roxie,” he said more gently. “You came because you wanted to come. And you’re here because you want to be here. But--you aren’t married yet?” The girl trembled at that. “No, sir. I ain’t married yet. But Bud--he said to-morrer he’d marry me.” “And you believe him?” “Yes, sir, I believe him. Oh--I gotter believe him.” “Then you ought to have waited until to-morrow.” “But I didn’.” “You were afraid Miss Wilmer might object?” “Yes, I was ’fraid o’ Miss Wilmer.” “I think most likely she _would_ have objected. And yet if you love the man--” Why did she cringe at that? “And yet if you love him--why, there isn’t any answer. Love is seldom--intelligent.” “I dunno,” she answered vaguely. She wished that he would not talk any more. She wished that he would go. Every second he remained was making it more difficult for her. “You know the man and what they say of him?” he asked. “Yes.” “And of course you believe he loves you or you wouldn’t have come. And that is the important thing; if he loves you, little girl. You’ll have him at your mercy--if he loves you as he ought to love you.” In her bewildered brain that suggestion of his seemed to fasten. It was being loved, he said, not loving that was important. “You will have him at your mercy,” ran his phrase. If only that proved true, then Allston was safe.