"What are you doing here?" demanded Rutlidge, sharply. "What's the matter?" "Some one is following my trail down from Granite Peak." "Well, what are you carrying that rifle for?" said Rutlidge, harshly, with an oath. "There may be others near enough to hear a shot," answered the convict. "Besides, Mr. Rutlidge, this is your part of the game--not mine. I did not agree to commit murder for you." "Where did you see him?" "A half mile beyond the head of the gulch, where we turn off to go to the supply point." Rutlidge, rifle in hand, stepped from the house. "You stay here and take care of the girl--and see that she doesn't scream." With the last word he set out at a run. The convict sprang into the cabin, where Sibyl still crouched in the corner. The man's voice was imploring as he said, "Miss Andrés, Miss Andrés, what is the matter? Did he touch you? Tell me, did he harm you?" Sobbing, the girl held out her hands, and he lifted her to her feet. "You--you came--just in time, Mr. Marston." An instant he stood there, then muttering something under his breath, he turned, caught up his rifle, and started toward the door. But, as he reached the threshold, she cried out, "Mr. Marston, don't, don't leave me again." The convict stopped, hesitated, then he said solemnly "Miss Andrés, can you pray? I know you can. You are a good girl. If God can hear a prayer he will surely hear you. Come with me. Come--and pray girl--pray for me." * * * * * The most charitable construction that can be put upon the action of James Rutlidge, just related, is to accept the explanation of his conduct that he, himself made to Sibyl. The man was insane--as Mr. Taine was insane--as Mrs. Taine was insane. What else can be said of a class of people who, in an age wedded to materialism, demand of their artists not that they shall set before them ideals of truth and purity and beauty, but that they shall feed their diseased minds with thoughts of lust and stimulate their abnormal passions with lascivious imaginings? Can a class--whatever its pretense to culture may be--can a class, that, in story and picture and music and play, counts greatest in art those who most effectively arouse the basest passions of which the human being is capable, be rightly judged sane?