But his first knowledge had come when he lifted a white face quivering in a convulsion of agony; he had heard God's name whispered by blood-stained lips; through her solemn and awful eyes he had caught a glimpse of her soul.

And just now had come the entreaty to him, "Don't--take--me--back--there!" Once for all Venters's quick mind formed a permanent conception of this poor girl.

He based it, not upon what the chances of life had made her, but upon the revelation of dark eyes that pierced the infinite, upon a few pitiful, halting words that betrayed failure and wrong and misery, yet breathed the truth of a tragic fate rather than a natural leaning to evil.
"What's your name ?" he inquired.
"Bess," she answered.
"Bess what ?" "That's enough--just Bess." The red that deepened in her cheeks was not all the flush of fever.
Venters marveled anew, and this time at the tint of shame in her face, at the momentary drooping of long lashes.

She might be a rustler's girl, but she was still capable of shame, she might be dying, but she still clung to some little remnant of honor.
"Very well, Bess.

It doesn't matter," he said.