“Well, Jem, I can't get it off my heart that I was to kill that man, or he me. Everything was on my side. I had my gut-lines, and I had a revolver and a cutlass—and I took up the cutlass like a fool; if I had taken up the revolver the man would be dead. I took up the wrong, and that man will be my death. The cards never forgive! I had the odd trick, and didn't take it—I shall lose the game.”
“No, ye shan't,” cried Jem, hastily. “What if the man got clear for the moment, we will hunt him out for you. You give me his description.”
“I couldn't,” said Robinson, despondingly. “It was so dark! Here is his pistol, but that is no use. If I had but a clew, ay, ever so slight, I'd follow it up; but no, there is none. Hallo, what is the matter! What is it? what on earth is the man looking at like that?”
“What was you asking for?” stammered Jem. “Wasn't it a clew?”
“Yes.”
Robinson got up and came to Jem, who was standing with dilated eyes looking at the ground in the very corner of the tent. He followed the direction of Jem's eyes, and was instantly transfixed with curiosity and rising horror.
“Take it up, Jem,” he gasped.
“No, you take it up! it was you who—”
“No—yes! there is George's voice. I wouldn't let him see such a thing for the world. Oh, God! here is another.”
“Another?”