The instant the sleeping man was out of her sight she suspected him again.
Was he really asleep after all? He had not taken off his boots. When she came back from making his bed she had found him standing by the mantelshelf. Had he unloaded the pistol in her absence? Would he presently get up, and open the door to his confederates?
Her mind rose clear and cold and unflinching. She took up the pistol, and then laid it down again. She wanted a more noiseless weapon. She got out her husband's great clasp-knife from the open tool-box, took the lamp, and crept back to the man's bedside. She should be able to kill him—certainly she should be able to kill him; and then she should have the pistol for the other one.
But he still slept heavily. When she saw him again, again her suspicions fell from her. She knew he was asleep.
She shook him by the shoulder, noiselessly, but with increasing violence, until he opened his eyes with a groan. Then only she remembered that she was shaking his wounded arm. He saw the knife in her hand, and raised his left arm as if to ward off the blow.
"Listen," she whispered, close to his ear. "Don't speak. There is a man trying to break into the house. You must get up and help me."
He stared at her, vaguely at first, but with growing intelligence. The food and sleep had restored him somewhat to himself. He sat up on the couch.
"Take off my boots," he whispered; "I tried, and could not."
Her last suspicion of him vanished. She cut the laces with her knife, and dragged his boots off. They stuck to his feet, and bits of the woollen socks came off with them. They had evidently not been taken off for weeks. While she did it, he whispered, "Why should any one be wanting to break in? There's nothing here to take."