He took her hand and led her toward the door. Then a confused noise outside stayed them. There was a crushing of underbrush as if a light wagon was being driven over the narrow path; a mingling of voices rose excitedly. "You damned scoundrel!" It was Filmer's voice. "Don't you utter that lie again until he's had a chance to fling it back in your teeth. Whatever your cursed row has been, he's got nothing to do with it. Shut up!" "Hold on there, Filmer." It was Tate speaking. "This here wagon's got wedged in the trees. I want to see this thing settled square. If she's--" a bristling string of epithets followed, then Tate apparently freed the vehicle he was in, for he jumped to the ground and joined the knockers at the door. So the morality of St. Ange was at stake! Gaston showed his teeth in a hard smile. There was but one conclusion for them all to come to, of course. "Say, Gaston, old man!" Filmer shouted; "open up. I thought maybe you'd like to bid Jude an affectionate farewell before he skipped. If he owes you--_anything_, here's your chance!" Another knock shook the door. The two inside looked at each other--man and woman! They both knew with what they had to deal. A dare-devil expression rose to Gaston's face. He tossed precaution to the winds. Abject terror possessed Joyce and she reeled as she stood, clutching the blanket closer. Gaston put an arm about her, strode to the door, unbarred it, and flung it back. "Well," he said to the men on the threshold, "what are you going to do about it?" Filmer staggered as if Gaston had struck him, and the look in his eyes went scathingly to Gaston's heart. But while it hurt, it aroused resentment. What right had Filmer to judge--Who knew _his_ past? But Gaston knew Filmer was _not_ judging. He knew he was only bidding farewell to his one friend of the Solitudes. The friend he had trusted and revered. The effect upon Jude was quite different. No doubt swayed him--he was merely debating in his mind whether he could now get away with the money and the wagon he had hired. "Since you've got her--" he stammered, "how about--the--the money?" The question nerved Gaston. "Money?" he cried; "get out with it, you thief and would-be murderer. Use it to get as far from here as you can, for as true as there is a heaven above us, if you ever interfere with me or--mine--again, I'll shoot you at sight. Get out--all of you!" He slammed the door violently shut, and with clenched hands and blazing eyes, he faced his companion. He and she were the only ones in the new world. Stung by the memory of the look of lost faith in the eyes of the one friend to whom he had planned to turn in this emergency; recalling Jude's glance of triumph as he turned away, Gaston's moral sense reeled, and the elemental passions rose. Joyce stood shrinking before him. Beaten, bruised and trapped, she awaited her doom.