His muscles grew tense.

The girl could feel them straining under her hands, could feel his body grow rigid and alert.

His hand fell again on his revolver; he made a step past her, his eyes flashing, his face as set as iron.
Almost sobbing, she pressed herself against his breast, holding him back.
"Don't--don't--don't--" she whispered.
They could hear the cracking of brush under the feet of those who were approaching.

Suddenly the sounds ceased not twenty paces away.
From his arms the girl's hands rose slowly to his shoulders, to his face, caressingly, pleadingly; her beautiful eyes glowed, half with terror, half with a prayer to him.
"Don't!" she breathed again, so close that her sweet breath fell warm on his face.

"Don't--if you--if you care for me!" Gently he drew her close in his arms, crushing her face to his breast, kissing her hair, her eyes, her mouth.
"I love you," he whispered again and again.
The steps were resumed, the voices died away.