"Get up!" he said.
Mabyn dragged himself to his hands and knees. It was some moments before he could control himself sufficiently to stand upright.
"What are you going to do with me?" he kept muttering.
Garth stepped backward. "Come outside!" he commanded.
Mabyn obeyed, making a circuit of the walls for support. His eyes were always riveted on the gun; and however slightly it was moved, he experienced a fresh spasm of fear.
"Face about!" ordered Garth; "and walk to the mouth of the creek!"
Mabyn became even paler. His skin was like white paper on which ashes have been rubbed, leaving streaks and patches of gray. "Would you shoot me in the back?" he said shrilly. "An unarmed man! I will not turn my back!"
"Then walk backward!" said Garth, with his laconic start of laughter.
Mabyn went like a crab down the rise, with his head over his shoulder, a ludicrous and deplorable figure. He was unable to drag his eyes from the gun, consequently he stumbled and lurched over every obstacle. Once he fell flat; and a sharp scream of fright was forced from him. Garth sickened at the sight, while he laughed. He had to give him a minute in which to recover himself.
Mabyn, scarcely coherent, ceaselessly begged for mercy. "Do not kill me!" he whimpered. "I can't die! Oh, God! Not like this! I never had a chance! You kill Natalie if you kill me—the breed will fix her!—and my mother! You'll have three murders on your soul! I can't die yet!"