So, meanwhile, she made her decree against Bennington. Not Vermont, but Wyoming, should be her wedding place. No world’s voices should be whispering, no world’s eyes should be looking on, when she made her vow to him and received his vow. Those voices should be spoken and that ring put on in this wild Cattle Land, where first she had seen him ride into the flooded river, and lift her ashore upon his horse. It was this open sky which should shine down on them, and this frontier soil upon which their feet should tread. The world should take its turn second. After a month with him by stream and canyon, a month far deeper into the mountain wilds than ever yet he had been free to take her, a month with sometimes a tent and sometimes the stars above them, and only their horses besides themselves--after such a month as this, she would take him to her mother and to Bennington; and the old aunt over at Dunbarton would look at him, and be once more able to declare that the Starks had always preferred a man who was a man. And so July third was to be engraved inside the wedding ring. Upon the other ring the Virginian had spent much delicious meditation, all in his secret mind. He had even got the right measure of her finger without her suspecting the reason. But this step was the final one in his plan. During the time that his thoughts had begun to be busy over the other ring, by a chance he had learned from Mrs. Henry a number of old fancies regarding precious stones. Mrs. Henry often accompanied the Judge in venturesome mountain climbs, and sometimes the steepness of the rocks required her to use her hands for safety. One day when the Virginian went with them to help mark out certain boundary corners, she removed her rings lest they should get scratched; and he, being just behind her, took them during the climb. “I see you’re looking at my topaz,” she had said, as he returned them. “If I could have chosen, it would have been a ruby. But I was born in November.” He did not understand her in the least, but her words awakened exceeding interest in him; and they had descended some five miles of mountain before he spoke again. Then he became ingenious, for he had half worked out what Mrs. Henry’s meaning must be; but he must make quite sure. Therefore, according to his wild, shy nature, he became ingenious. “Men wear rings,” he began. “Some of the men on the ranch do. I don’t see any harm in a man’s wearin’ a ring. But I never have.” “Well,” said the lady, not yet suspecting that he was undertaking to circumvent her, “probably those men have sweethearts.” “No, ma’am. Not sweethearts worth wearin’ rings for--in two cases, anyway. They won ’em at cyards. And they like to see ’em shine. I never saw a man wear a topaz.” Mrs. Henry did not have any further remark to make. “I was born in January myself,” pursued the Virginian, very thoughtfully.