“I can go right to it, blindfolded, or in the dark.... Oh, John, hurry! I dread the wait. He might come again.” “Joe says--they won't come very soon.” “Is it far--where we're going--out of the country?” “Ten days' hard riding.” “Oh! That night ride to and from Stonebridge nearly killed me. But I could walk very far, and climb for ever.” “Fay, we'll get out of the country if I have to carry you.” When they arrived at the cabin Fay turned on the porch step and, with her face nearer a level with his, white and sweet in the moonlight, with her eyes shining and unfathomable, she was more than beautiful. “You've never been inside my house,” she said. “Come in. I've something for you.” “But it's late,” he remonstrated. “I suppose you've got me a cake or pie--something to eat. You women all think Joe and I have to be fed.” “No. You'd never guess. Come in,” she said, and the rare smile on her face was something Shefford would have gone far to see. “Well, then, for a minute.” He crossed the porch, the threshold, and entered her home. Her dim, white shape moved in the darkness. And he followed into a room where the moon shone through the open window, giving soft, mellow, shadowy light. He discerned objects, but not clearly, for his senses seemed absorbed in the strange warmth and intimacy of being for the first time with her in her home. “No, it's not good to eat,” she said, and her laugh was happy. “Here--” Suddenly she abruptly ceased speaking. Shefford saw her plainly, and the slender form had stiffened, alert and strained. She was listening. “What was that?” she whispered. “I didn't hear anything,” he whispered back. He stepped softly nearer the open window and listened. Clip-clop! clip-clop! clip-clop! Hard hoofs on the hard path outside! A strong and rippling thrill went over Shefford. In the soft light her eyes seemed unnaturally large and black and fearful. Clip-clop! clip-clop! The horse stopped outside. Then followed a metallic clink of spur against stirrup--thud of boots on hard ground--heavy footsteps upon the porch. A swift, cold contraction of throat, of breast, convulsed Shefford. His only thought was that he could not think. “Ho--Mary!” A voice liberated both Shefford's muscle and mind--a voice of strange, vibrant power. Authority of religion and cruelty of will--these Mormon attributes constituted that power. And Shefford suffered a transformation which must have been ordered by demons. That sudden flame seemed to curl and twine and shoot along his veins with blasting force. A rancorous and terrible cry leaped to his lips. “Ho--Mary!” Then came a heavy tread across the threshold of the outer room.