She stood for an instant at the porch-edge, a beam of silvery moonlight streaming upon her through a break in the trees overhead, convinced that Parsons had gone to bed; and convinced, likewise, that, were she to disturb him now to ask the question that was in her mind, he would laugh at her. She decided she would wait until the morning, and she was about to return to the edge of the butte, when she realized that it had grown rather late. She had not noticed how quickly the time had fled. She turned, intending to enter the house from one of the rear doors through which she had emerged, when a sound reached her ears—the rapid drumming of a horse’s hoofs. She wheeled, facing the direction from which the sound came—and saw Carrington riding toward her, not more than fifty feet distant. He saw her at the instant her gaze rested on him—an instant before, she surmised, for there was a huge grin on his face as she turned to him. He was at her side before she could obey a sudden impulse to run—for she did not wish to talk to him tonight—and in another instant he had dismounted and was standing close to her. “All alone, eh?” he laughed. “And enjoying the moon? Do you know that you made a ravishing picture, standing there with the light shining on you? I saw you as you started to turn, and I shall remember the picture all my life! You are more beautiful than ever, girl!” Carrington was breathing fast. The girl thought he had been riding hard. But, despite that explanation for the repressed excitement under which he seemed to be laboring, the girl thought she detected the presence of restrained passion in his eyes, and she shrank back a little. She had often seen passion in his eyes, identical with what glowed in them now, but she had always felt a certain immunity, a masterfulness over him that had permitted her to feel that she could repulse him at will. Now, however, she felt a sudden, cringing dread of him. The dread, no doubt, was provoked by her uncle’s revelation of the man’s character; and, for the first time during her acquaintance with Carrington, she felt a fear of him, and became aware of the overpowering force and virility of the man. Her voice was a little tremulous when she answered: “I was looking for Uncle Elam. He must have gone in.” His face was not very distinct to her, for he was standing in a shadow cast by a near-by tree, and she could not see the bruises that marred the flesh, but it seemed to her that his face had never seemed so repulsive. And the significance of his grin made her gasp. “That’s good. I’m glad he did go in; I did not come to see Parsons.” She had meant to take him to task for what he had done to her uncle, but there was something in his voice that made thoughts of defending Parsons seem futile—a need gone in the necessity to conserve her voice and strength for an imminent crisis.