In wild frenzy the woman rushed toward the man, a knife gleaming in her uplifted hand, and her whole bearing that of one gone mad. Like a statue stood Red Hand, his hands hanging listlessly by his sides, his eyes bent with fixed stare upon the woman, and his whole manner that of a man struck dumb by some startling discovery, some terrible shock that had wholly unnerved him for the slightest motion.
On rushed the madwoman, and still he stood passive, seemingly unconscious of his danger, or unmindful of her presence, for his head was lowered upon his breast and his eyes downcast.
A few rapid bounds, a frenzied laugh, and the madwoman faced the man she had accused. The arm was poised in the air, the gleaming blade threatening instant death, the glaring eyes, wild with madness; yet Red Hand did not move.
Then, with a weird cry of revengeful joy the knife began to descend, swiftly, pointed at the heart of Red Hand.
Before the keen blade was sheathed in the broad breast there came a bright flash from the dark hillside, a sharp report, and with a wild shriek the woman dropped the knife. The shot awoke Red Hand from his apathy. With a cry of alarm he sprang forward, crying: “Grace! Grace! You are hurt.”
“Back, sir! Do not pollute me with your touch. Ha! Still I have hope of revenge,” cried the woman.
She drew with her left hand from her belt a pistol and quickly fired it in the face of Red Hand, who staggered back, bewildered by the flash, but uninjured.
Believing that she had slain the man she seemed to hate the unhappy woman almost shrieked:
“Now I die content. Ben, you are avenged, and so is——”