“I cannot trust you. If I throw away the taper, you will treat your word as you did when my guardian fell into your hands.”
“I will not—I swear by everything I hold holy and pure. I will go away and never come back if you will throw away the taper. I swear it, on my soul.”
“Swear by something else. I will not trust you. Keep silent, base man, and let me at least spend my last hour in quiet.”
“You shall not do it,” he screamed. “Here are my weapons, and I have no others—my revolvers. Take them, and then you can surely consider yourself safe.”
“Will you give them?” she cried, eagerly. “If you do that, I may put some trust in your promises, for I shall be able to enforce obedience.”
He hesitated for a moment, but as she advanced the light in the direction of the keg, he took the weapons from his belt and threw them down to her. Shifting the taper into her left hand, she caught up a weapon and glanced at it, her quick look assuring her that it was ready for service, and she sprung to her feet, hastily hurling away the taper which was burned half-way down. Myrtle was young, and life was in its bloom for her, and she was happy in her escape.
“Go outside,” she said, “and let me see your face at the window of my room.”
He hurried out at once, and looking up through the trap, she caught sight of his pale face peering through the little window. In an instant she was out of the passage and at the door, holding her revolvers cocked in each hand.
“It is over now, Rafe Norris,” she said. “Go, before I forget myself and avenge in your person my murdered friend, my more than father, Nicholas Fletcher.”
But he folded his arms and looked at her fixedly, the light of a strange resolve in his eyes.