Chan cursed in the gloom, his lean face darkened; but Neilson made no answer. Ray in his place sharply inhaled; but the sullen glow in his eyes snapped into a flame.
If Beatrice had glanced at Ray, she would have ceased her appeal and trusted everything to the doubtful mercy of flight,—into the gloom of the forest. As it was, she did not fully comprehend the cruel lust, like flame, that sped through his veins. She would have hoped for no mercy if she could have seen the strange, black surge of wrath in his face.
"He has been kind to me—and he was in the right, not in the wrong. I know about the claim-jumping. Father, I want you to stand between him and these men—help him—and give him food. I didn't speak to you because I was afraid for him—afraid you'd kill him or do some other awful thing to him—"
Slowly her father shook his head. "But I can't save him now. He brought this on himself."
"Remember, he was in the right," the girl pleaded brokenly. "You won't—you couldn't be a partner to murder. That's all it would be—murder—brutal, terrible, cold-blooded murder—if you kill him without a fight. It couldn't be in defense of me—I tell you he hasn't injured me—but was always kind to me. It would be just to take that letter away from him—"
"So he has the letter, has he?" Ray interrupted. He smiled grimly, and his tone was again flat and strained. "And he's sick—and starving. It isn't for your father to say, Beatrice, what's to be done with Ben. There's three of us here, and he's just one. Don't go interfering with what doesn't concern you, either—about the claim. You take us where he is, and we'll decide what to do with him."
Her eyes went to his face; and her lips closed tight. Here was one thing, on this mortal earth, that she must not tell. Perhaps, by the mercy of heaven, they would not find the cave, hidden as it was at the edge of the little glade. The forests were boundless; perhaps they would miss the place in their search. She straightened, scarcely perceptibly.
"Yes, tell us where he is," her father urged. "That's the first thing. We'll find him, anyway, in the morning."
The girl shook her head. She knew now that even if they promised mercy she must not reveal Ben's whereabouts. Their rage and cruelty would not be stayed for a spoken promise. The only card she had left, her one last, feeble hope of preserving Ben's life, lay in her continued silence. Ray's foul-nailed, eager hands could claw her lips apart, but he could not make her speak.
"I won't tell you," she answered at last, more clearly than she had spoken since her capture. "You said a few minutes ago I had gone over—to the opposite camp. I am, from now on. He was in the right, and he gave up his fight against you long ago. Now I want to go."