No, it was not that. He could not do it. He could not shoot a sleeping woman, devil though she was; he could not kill her in her sleep. His nature rose up against it.
He placed the pistol on his knee, and as he did so she opened her eyes. He saw the look of wonder gather in them and grow to a stare of agonised terror. Her face became rigid like a dead person’s and her lips opened to scream, but no cry came. She could only point to the pistol.
“Make a sound and you are dead,” he said fiercely. “Not that it matters though,” he added, as he remembered that the scream must be loud which could be heard in that raging gale.
“What are you going to do?” she gasped at last. “What are you going to do with that pistol? And where do you come from?”
“I come out of the night,” he answered, raising the weapon, “out of the night into which you are going.”
“You are not going to kill me?” she moaned, turning up her ghastly face. “I can’t die. I’m afraid to die. It will hurt, and I’ve been wicked. Oh, you are not going to kill me, are you?”
“Yes, I am going to kill you,” he answered. “I told you months ago that I would kill you if you molested me. You have ruined me now, there is nothing but death left for me, and you shall die too, you fiend.”
“Oh no! no! no! anything but that. I was drunk when I did it; that man brought me there, and they had taken all my things, and I was starving,” and she glanced wildly round the empty carriage to see if help could be found, but there was none. She was alone with her fate.
She slipped down upon the floor of the carriage and clasped his knees. Writhing in her terror upon the ground, in hoarse accents she prayed for mercy.
“You used to kiss me,” she said; “you cannot kill a woman you used to kiss years ago. Oh, spare me, spare me!”