She vibrated to that like a keen strung wire under a strong touch. All in a flash the trembling, shame-stricken girl was transformed. She leaned back in his arms, supple, pliant with quivering life, and for the first time gave him wide-open level eyes, in which there were now no tears, no shyness, no fear, but a dark smouldering fire. “You do love me, Mescal?” “I--I couldn't help it.” There was a pause, tense with feeling. “Mescal, tell me--about your being pledged,” he said, at last. “I gave him my promise because there was nothing else to do. I was pledged to--to him in the church at White Sage. It can't be changed. I've got to marry--Father Naab's eldest son.” “Eldest son?” echoed Jack, suddenly mindful of the implication. “Why! that's Snap Naab. Ah! I begin to see light. That--Mescal--” “I hate him.” “You hate him and you're pledged to marry him!... God! Mescal, I'd utterly forgotten Snap Naab already has a wife.” “You've also forgotten that we're Mormons.” “Are you a Mormon?” he queried bluntly. “I've been raised as one.” “That's not an answer. Are you one? Do you believe any man under God's sky ought to have more than one wife at a time?” “No. But I've been taught that it gave woman greater glory in heaven. There have been men here before you, men who talked to me, and I doubted before I ever saw you. And afterward--I knew.” “Would not Father Naab release you?” “Release me? Why, he would have taken me as a wife for himself but for Mother Mary. She hates me. So he pledged me to Snap.” “Does August Naab love you?” “Love me? No. Not in the way you mean--perhaps as a daughter. But Mormons teach duty to church first, and say such love comes--to the wives--afterward. But it doesn't--not in the women I've seen. There's Mother Ruth--her heart is broken. She loves me, and I can tell.” “When was this--this marriage to be?” “I don't know. Father Naab promised me to his son when he came home from the Navajo range. It would be soon if they found out that you and I-- Jack, Snap Naab would kill you!” The sudden thought startled the girl. Her eyes betrayed her terror. “I mightn't be so easy to kill,” said Hare, darkly. The words came unbidden, his first answer to the wild influences about him. “Mescal, I'm sorry--maybe I've brought you unhappiness.” “No. No. To be with you has been like sitting there on the rim watching the desert, the greatest happiness I have ever known. I used to love to be with the children, but Mother Mary forbade. When I am down there, which is seldom, I'm not allowed to play with the children any more.” “What can I do?” asked Hare, passionately. “Don't speak to Father Naab. Don't let him guess. Don't leave me here alone,” she answered low. It was not the Navajo speaking in her now. Love had sounded depths hitherto unplumbed; a quick, soft impulsiveness made the contrast sharp and vivid. “How can I help but leave you if he wants me on the cattle ranges?”