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Now those who knew Timber-Wolf best knew this about him—that he had no use for womankind; that he held all of the female of the human race to be weaklings and worse, leeches upon the strength of man, mere outwardly glossed tricks of a scheming nature; things contemptible. And at this moment, surely, Timber-Wolf was in no mood to revise for the better his sweeping and deep-based opinion. But now, despite all trumped-up reasonings, no matter how sincere, his first clear view of this girl gave him pause.

She was superb. Physically, if not otherwise. For the first thing, her hair snared him. Strong men are always caught by films; a big brute of a man who may break his triumphant way through iron bands grows powerless under a frail wisp of a frail woman's hair. In the hall she had held her hat in her hands; her hair, loosely upgathered and insecurely and hastily confined, had tumbled all about her face as she bolted into her room. He saw that first of all. And then he saw her eyes. At the moment, already in her room with the door slammed shut behind him and his back against it, he looked, glowering, into her eyes. And he found them at once soft and still amazingly unafraid; those daring eyes of Lynette Brooke, daughter of a dancing-girl and of the dare-all miner, Brooke. Unafraid, though he who might have choked the life out of her between finger and thumb, turned his furious face upon her.