"That was just talk, of course?" said the bride.
"It was not," said Farallone; "shoot me."
"Let us go," said the bride. Her voice faltered.
"Not you," said Farallone, "while I live."
His voice, low and gentle, had in it a kind of far-off sadness. He turned his eyes from the bride and looked the rising sun in the face. He turned back to her and smiled.
"You haven't the heart to shoot me," he said. "My darling."
"Let us go."
"Let—you—go!" He laughed. "Send—away—my—mate!"
His eyes clouded and became vacant. He blinked them rapidly and raised his hand to his brow. It seemed to me that in that instant, suddenly come and suddenly gone, I perceived a look of insanity in his face. The bride, too, perhaps, saw something of the kind, for like a flash she had the revolver out and cocked it.