The girl across the table had been awakened several weeks ago in Gaston's little shack among the pines. Since then she had been living vividly and fervently. The question with her, now, was how best to voice herself—the self that Jude in no wise knew. Womanlike, she did not want to plunge into what might prove an abyss. She wanted to take her own way, but with a half-unconscious coquetry she desired to drag her captives whither she went.
In the old stupid life before her womanhood was roused, Jude had held no mean part in her girlish dreams. He was the best of the St. Angé boyhood and Joyce had an instinctive relish for the best wherever she saw it. Whatever the future held she was not inclined to thrust Jude from it. In success or failure she would rather have him with her than against her. Not that she feared him—she had boundless belief in herself—but, hearts to the woman, scalps to the savage, are trophies not to be despised.
"I—I want to know what it means." Again Jude spoke, and this time a tone of command rang through the words.
The corners of Joyce's mouth twitched—she had a wonderfully expressive mouth. Suddenly she raised her eyes. They did not hold the expression Jude might have expected from her disturbed silence. His growing courage took a step back, but his passion rushed forward proportionately.
The witch-light danced in the steady glance she turned upon him; she threw her head back and her slim throat showed white and smooth in the lamp's glow.
"Suppose he did hold my hand and—and kiss me, Jude Lauzoon, you'd like to do the same yourself, now wouldn't you?"
She was ignorantly testing her weak, woman's weapon on the man's metal.
Jude felt the mist rising in his eyes that once before that day had hid this girl and Gaston from his sight. Like a mad mockery, too, Lola's lark song sounded above the rush of blood that made him giddy. He got to his feet and staggered around the table. He held to it, not so much to steady himself as to guide him, but as he neared the girl the blindness passed, and the tormenting song stopped—he stood in an awful silence, and a white, hot light.
"Yes, by God, I do want to, and if yer that kind I'll take—my share and chance along with the rest of 'em."
It was his own voice, loud and brutal, that smote the better part of him that stood afar and alone; a something quite different from the beast who spoke, and which felt a mad interest in wondering how she would take the words.