Marion Harlan did not yield to the overpowering weakness that seized her after she realized that further resistance to Carrington would be useless. And instead of yielding to the hysteria that threatened her, she clenched her hands and bit her lips in an effort to retain her composure. She succeeded. And during the progress of her captor’s horse up the long slope she kept a good grip on herself, fortifying herself against what might come when she and her captor reached the big house. When they reached the crest of the hill, Carrington ordered the two men to take Martha around to the back of the house and confine her in one of the rooms. One man was to guard her. The other was to wait on the front porch until Carrington called him. The girl had decided to make one more struggle when Carrington dismounted with her, but though she fought hard and bitterly, she did not succeed in escaping Carrington, and the latter finally lifted her in his arms and carried her into the front room, the room in which Carrington had fought with Taylor the day Taylor had killed the three men who had ambushed him. Carrington lighted a lamp—it was this light Parsons had seen from the basin—placed it on a shelf, and in its light grinned triumphantly at the girl. “Well, we are here,” he said. In his voice was that passion that had been in it that other time, when he had pursued her into the house, and she had escaped him by hiding in the attic. She cringed from him, backing away a little, and, noting the movement, he laughed hoarsely. “Don’t worry,” he said, “at least for an hour or two. I’ve got something more important on my mind. Do you know what it is?” he demanded, grinning hugely. “It’s Taylor!” He suddenly seemed to remember that he did not know why she had been abroad at dusk on the Dawes trail, and he came close to her. “Did you see Keats today?” She did not answer, meeting his gaze fairly, her eyes flashing with scorn and contempt. But he knew from the flame in her eyes that she had seen Keats, and he laughed derisively. “So you saw him,” he jeered; “and you know that he came for Taylor. Did he find Taylor at the Arrow?” Again she did not answer, and he went on, suspecting that Taylor had not been at the Arrow, and that Keats had gone to search for him. “No, Keats didn’t find him—that’s plain enough. I should have enjoyed being there to hear Keats tell you that Taylor had killed your father. You heard that, didn’t you? Yes,” he added, his grin broadening; “you heard that. So that’s why you left the Arrow! Well, I don’t blame you for leaving.”