Men were coming through the chaos and upheaval of rock. There were many of them, appearing out of the darker neck of the gorge into the clearer light, and at their head was a man upon whom Mary’s eyes fixed themselves in horror. White-faced she looked at Alan. He had guessed the truth.
“That man in front?” he asked.
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Is John Graham.”
He heard the words choking in her throat.
“Yes, John Graham.”
He swung his rifle slowly, his eyes burning with a steely fire.
“I think,” he said, “that from here I can easily kill him!”
Her hand touched his arm; she was looking into his eyes. Fear had gone out of them, and in its place was a soft and gentle radiance, a prayer to him.
“I am thinking of tomorrow—the next day—the years and years to come, with you,” she whispered. “Alan, you can’t kill John Graham—not until God shows us it is the only thing left for us to do. You can’t—”