She sat, her hands clasped about her knees, looking into the gurgling water. The cool, ashen hue that precedes sunset in the mountains began to creep through the air. The child had crouched down at her feet, and fallen into a half doze. It was so still that she heard far down the path a man's footsteps crushing the sand, coming close. She did not turn her head,--only the sudden blood dyed her face and neck. "Paul!" She knew he was coming for her. No answer. She stood up then, and looked around. It was the prisoner Gurney, leaning against the rock, motionless, only that he twisted a silk handkerchief nervously in his hand, looking down at it, and crunching tobacco vehemently in his teeth. "I've met you at last, Grey. I knew you were at the Ferry." The girl said nothing. Sudden death, or a mortal thrust of Fate, like this, brings only dumb astonishment at first: no pain. She put her fingers to her throat: there was a lump in it, choking her. He laughed, uneasily. "It's a devilish cool welcome, considering you are my wife." Pen woke and began to cry. She patted his shoulder in a dazed way, her eyes never leaving the man's face; then she went close, and caught him by the arm. "It is flesh and blood,"--shaking her off. "I'm not dead. You thought I was dead, did you? I got that letter written from Cuba,"--toying with his whiskers, with a complacent smirk. "That was the sharpest dodge of my life, Grey. Fact is, I was damnably in debt, and tied up with your people, and I cut loose. So, eh? What d' ye think of it, Puss?" putting his hand on her arm. "_Wife_, eh?" She drew back against the sandstone with a hoarse whisper of a cry such as can leave a woman's lips but once or twice in a lifetime: an animal tortured near its death utters something like it, trying to speak. "Well, well, I don't want to incommode you,"--shifting his feet uncertainly. "I--it's not my will I came across you. Single life suits me. And you too, heh? I've been rollicking round these four years,--Tom Crane and I: you don't know Tom, though. Plains,--Valparaiso,--New Orleans. Well, I'm going to see this shindy out in the States now. Tom's in it, head-devil of a guerrilla-band. _I_ keep safe. Let Jack Gurney alone for keeping a whole skin! But, eh, Grey?"--mounting a pair of gold-rimmed eye-glasses over his thick nose. "You've grown. Different woman, by George! Nothing but a puling, gawky girl, when I went away. Your eyes and skin have got color,--luscious-looking: why, your eyes flash like a young bison's we trapped out in Nevada. Come, kiss me, Grey. Eh?"--looking in the brown eyes that met his, and stopping short in his approach.