She had almost reached it when he called to her.
"You are a brave girl," said Paul Loup slowly, his eyes intent on Betty's pretty face, "How do you know that I—the murderer—will not kill you also for this knowledge you have of me?"
Betty heard the frightened gasp of the girls behind her, but, strangely enough, she herself felt no fear.
"You wouldn't do that," she said, her clear gaze holding his burning one. "You could not wish harm to a friend."
"Is that what you wish me to consider you—a friend?" asked the strange man, feeling suddenly as though something warm and vital had closed about his heart.
"If you will," replied Betty, reaching out her hand. "I would like very much to be."
But Paul Loup, for all he was a murderer and an outcast, was also a Frenchman. With a quick gesture, ignoring her outstretched hand he caught her in his arms, held her there for a minute, then, releasing her, kissed her gently, first on one cheek, then on the other.
"I had forgotten there were kind hearts in the world," he murmured brokenly, turning from her. "You have restored my faith. Au revoir, my friend."
Someway, somehow, the girls found themselves outside that little cabin, making their way blindly down the path to where their horses were tethered. In a daze they mounted and rode off down the trail.
When they came to the open trail they found that Betty was crying, openly, unashamed. Mollie pushed a handkerchief into her hand, but the Little Captain did not seem to notice it. She stared straight ahead, her cheeks burning, the tears rolling unchecked down her face.