“Oh, Frances, Frances!” Nola moaned, with expression of despair, “isn’t this terrible!”
“If you mean it’s terrible to have him here, I can’t help it. I’m a prisoner, here against my will. I couldn’t leave him out there alone to die.”
Nola lowered her candle and stared at Frances, her eyes big and blank of everything but a wild expression that Frances had read as fear.
“Will he die?” she whispered.
“Yes; you are to have your heartless way at last. He will die, and his blood will be on this house, never to be washed away!”
“Why didn’t you come back when we called you—both of you?” Nola drew near, reaching out an appealing hand. Frances shrank from her, to bend quickly over Macdonald when he groaned and moved his head.
“Put out that light—it’s in his eyes!” she said.
Nola blew out the candle and came glimmering into the room in her soft white gown.
“Don’t blame me, Frances, don’t blame any of us. Mother and I wanted to save you both, we tried to stop the men, and we could have held them back if 272 it hadn’t been for Chance. Chance got three of them to go, the others—”
“They paid for that!” said Frances, a little lift of triumph in her voice.