"You!" he gasped. "You!"
The eyes opened once more.
In a weak, wavering tone came disjointed words.
"You said—you—would shoot him—like a dog—and I told you—it would—kill—me if you—did."
As white as his captive, Durham stood dumbfounded.
The feeling of horror which had come upon him when first he recognised the face overwhelmed him. His heart went dead and his brain numbed. All the roseate dreams of his romance turned to dull grey leaden grief to flaunt and mock him.
Like the panoramic vision said to come to the minds of the drowning, the incidents on which his love had dwelt in cherishing delight passed before him. He saw again the sparkling eyes which had filled him with such gladness when first that love had come to him; saw the picture made by the wonderfully graceful form leaning against the verandah at Waroona Downs, bathed in the soft, romantic light of the new-born moon; saw the pleading face turned to him as the gentle voice spoke endearing words to gain a passing favour; saw once more that fleeting, taunting vision on which he had built so much despite the warning to beware of the vagaries of a delirium-swayed brain.
The visions passed. Before him, crippled and ghastly in the last agony of life, lay the author of this diabolical outrage upon every sensibility of his manhood.
A rage of blind, ungovernable fury swept over him. The primitive instinct of revenge, the savage longing to wreak, while there was yet time, a last fierce vengeance on the one who had betrayed him, filled his being. With a cry which ended in a curse he sprang to where his carbine lay, seized it by the barrel, and swung it round his head as he turned back upon his prisoner.
A gasping sigh came from the prostrate form, and the head rolled lolling to one side.