Burroughs could not look at his wife, but he threw a furtive glance at the flower-like face of his daughter. Her look of terror and of shame was more than he could bear. Before all men he had been confounded; before the wife whose love he had never won, his own passion proving his torment; before his daughter, the idol of his heart.
As the surge of curious men pressed nearer he saw the malevolent joy of Joseph Hall and of Chaplain McDevitt, and he knew who had planned his disgrace. He saw Danvers, vainly striving to reach his sister.
"Let me out!" came in a thick gurgle from his swelling throat. Something in his face made the throng give way and Moore quickly pushed him outside into the midnight cold.
"Go back for my wife and daughter," Burroughs commanded. "Go back!"
The street was empty, for everybody had stayed within the capitol to feast on the sensation of the Indians and the fainting women. Moore hesitated.
"They'll be right out, Bob. Let me call a cab."
"Go!" The old, imperious fire came from the deep-set eyes.
Moore had no sooner turned his back to obey than a pistol shot broke the stillness.
The rabble poured from the capitol at the sound of the shot. Moore, the only friend that Burroughs ever had, raised his companion. The plotting and planning was over. Robert Burroughs, having forced his way through life's stockade, stepped out, alone, into the Dark Trail.
In the confusion of that midnight scene Danvers was conscious of but one desire, held in abeyance by the tragic necessities of the moment. At last the surging crowd dispersed, the officers of the law performed their hasty duty, and Moore drove away in a closed carriage with Mrs. Burroughs and her daughter.