Truly he did not see her face at first, but only the fear in it, parting
her lips and widening her eyes. She did not speak; her only movement was
to drag up the coverlet of the bed and hold it against the base of
her throat.

Andy drew off his hat and stepped a little closer. "Do you know me?" he
asked.

He watched her as she strove to speak, but if her lips stirred they made
no sound. It tortured him to see her terror, and yet he would not have
had her change. This crystal pallor or a flushed joy--in one of the two
she was most beautiful.

"You saw me in Martindale," he continued. "I am the blacksmith. Do you
remember?"

She nodded, still watching him with those haunted eyes.

"I saw you for the split part of a second," said Andy, "and you stopped
my heart. I've come to see you for two minutes; I swear I mean you no
harm. Will you let me have those two minutes for talk?" Again she
nodded. But he could see that the terror was being tempered a little in
her face. She was beginning to think, to wonder. It seemed a natural
thing for Andy to go forward a pace closer to the bed, but, lest that
should alarm her, it seemed also natural for him to drop upon one knee.
It brought the muzzle of the revolver jarringly home against the floor.

The girl heard that sound of metal and it shook her; but it requires a
very vivid imagination to fear a man upon his knees. And now that she