Joan submitted to his embrace for just so long as he was speaking. Then she looked up with terrified eyes and released herself.
“No, no, Buck. I must not listen. I dare not. It is my fate. My terrible fate. You don’t understand. Beasley was right. I was responsible for Ike’s death. For Pete’s death. But not in the way he meant. It is my curse. They loved me, and—disaster followed instantly. Can’t you see? Can’t you see? Oh, my dear, can’t you see that this same disaster must dog you—now?”
Buck stared. Then he gathered himself together.
“Your fate?”
“Yes, yes. I am cursed. Oh,” Joan suddenly gave a shrill laugh that was painful to hear. “Every man that has ever told me—what you have told me—has met with disaster, and—death.”
For one second no sound broke the stillness of the barn but the restless movements of Cæsar. Then, suddenly, a laugh, a clear, buoyant laugh, full of defiance, full of incredulity, rang through the building.
It was Buck. He moved forward, and in a moment the girl was lying close upon his breast.
“Is that the reason you mustn’t, daren’t, listen to me?” he cried, in a voice thrilling with hope and confidence. “Is that the only reason? Jest because of death an’ disaster to me? Jest that, an’—nothing more? Tell me, little gal. Tell me or—or I’ll go mad.”
“Yes, yes. But oh, you don’t——”
“Yes, I do. Say, Joan, my little, little gal. Tell me. Tell me right now. You ain’t—hatin’ me for—for loving you so bad. Tell me.”