"I ask your forgiveness."
"I forgive you."
The sound of firing outside had grown fainter, the shrieks louder, more exultant, mingling like an unearthly savage chorus with the hushed voices By the couch.
—"Thy will be done—" prayed Christine valiantly.
Margaret Caruthers lifted her head and laughed.
"Don't laugh!" her husband burst out. "Pray now, if you have ever prayed in your life. You have need of prayers." He lifted his arm as he spoke; but, as though she guessed his intention, she sprang out of his reach.
"No!" she said, in a voice concentrated with passion. "I am not going to die like that. Stafford can shoot his wife down like a piece of blind cattle if he thinks fit—but not you. I won't die by your hand, Steven. I hate you too much."
"Hush!" he exclaimed. "The account between us is settled."
"Do you think I can begin to love you just because we are both about to die?"
"You are my wife," he answered, grasping her by the wrists. "There are things worse than death, and from them I shall shield you, whether you will or not."