His shirt stained and tattered for bandages, his hair matted in blood on his forehead, his eyes inflamed and sunken, his lips crusted and swollen, the birthmark fastened vividly on his cheek made him a desperate sight. Regarding him steadily, Nan, as bewildered as if she had suddenly come on a great wounded beast of prey still dangerous, made no response to his words. The two stared 168 at each other defiantly and for another moment in silence. “If you are going to kill me,” he continued, looking into her eyes without any thought of appeal, “do it quick.”
Something in his long, unyielding gaze impelled her to break the spell of it. “What are you doing here?” she demanded with anger, curbing her voice to control her excitement as best she could.
De Spain, still looking at her, answered only after a pause. “Hiding,” he said harshly.
“Hiding to kill other men!” Nan’s accusation as she clutched her rifle was almost explosive.
He regarded her coolly, and with the interval he had had for thinking, his wits were clearing. “Do I look like a man hunting for a fight? Or,” he added, since she made no answer, “like a man hunting for a quiet spot to die in? How,” he went on slowly, delirium giving place to indignation, “can you say I’m hiding here to kill other men? That’s what your people tell you, is it?”
“I know you are a murderer.”
In spite of his weakness he flushed. “No,” he exclaimed sharply, “I’m not a murderer. If you think it”––he pointed contemptuously to her side––“you have your rifle––use it!”
“My rifle is to defend myself with. I am not a public executioner,” she answered scornfully.
“You need no rifle to defend yourself from 169 me––though I am a murderer. And if you’re not a public executioner, leave me––I’m dying fast enough.”
“You came here to hide to kill somebody!” she exclaimed, as if the thought were a sudden explanation.