“When did it happen?” asked Nola, the gust of her weeping past.
“This morning, early.”
“Who did it—how did it happen? You got away from Chance—you said it wasn’t Chance.”
“We got away from that gang yesterday; this happened this morning, miles from that place.”
“Who was it? Why don’t you tell me, Frances?”
They were standing at Macdonald’s side. A little spurt of flame among the ends of wood in the chimney threw a sudden illumination over them, and played like water over a stone upon Macdonald’s face, then sank again, as if it had been plunged in ashes. Frances remained silent, her vindictiveness, her 275 hardness of heart, against this vacillating girl dying away as the flame had died. It was not her desire to hurt her with that story of treachery and cowardice which must leave its stain upon her name for many a year.
“The name of the man who shot him is a curse and a blight on this land, a mockery of every holy human thought. I’ll not speak it.”
Nola stared at her, horror speaking from her eyes. “He must be a monster!”
“He is the lowest of the accursed—a coward!” Frances said.
Nola shuddered, standing silently by the couch a little while. Then: “But I want to help you, Frances, if you’ll let me.”