He could not look into her face, meet her steady, unabashed, yet wistful eyes, and think of her as the woman she had confessed herself.

Oldring's Masked Rider sat before him, a girl dressed as a man.

She had been made to ride at the head of infamous forays and drives.

She had been imprisoned for many months of her life in an obscure cabin.

At times the most vicious of men had been her companions; and the vilest of women, if they had not been permitted to approach her, had, at least, cast their shadows over her.
But--but in spite of all this--there thundered at Venters some truth that lifted its voice higher than the clamoring facts of dishonor, some truth that was the very life of her beautiful eyes; and it was innocence.
In the days that followed, Venters balanced perpetually in mind this haunting conception of innocence over against the cold and sickening fact of an unintentional yet actual gift.