The remainder of the sentence was drowned in the report of her revolver, which she had placed against her heart and fired. Too late did Red Hand spring forward to attempt to check her act. He could only catch her falling form in his strong arms and lower her gently to the ground just as a rapid footstep was heard, and Buffalo Bill dashed up with anxious manner, crying:
“Did she wound you, comrade?”
“No, but she has killed herself,” sadly said Red Hand.
“In God’s name, who is she, Red Hand?”
“One whom I knew long years ago—one whom I never harmed in thought, word, or action, and yet who has turned against me,” sadly replied Red Hand.
He was gazing with bitterness and sorrow into the pale, worn, yet still beautiful face—a face that possessed an almost weirdlike loveliness, and a form of wondrous grace and beauty.
The eyes were large, almond-shaped, and had been full of slumbering fire; the mouth was small, yet stern, mayhap having become so in later years, and the teeth were milky white, while a wealth of black hair hung down her back and covered her shapely shoulders.
She was dressed in a coarse garment of pure white, and moccasins incased her feet. A belt of buckskin, bead-worked, encircled her small waist and supported the scabbard and holster of the weapons she had endeavored to use against Red Hand.
Breathing heavily, she lay in his arms, and at his words she unclosed her lustrous eyes and met his gaze.
“Grace, Grace, do you know me, or does the shadow of death lie between you and me?” softly said Red Hand.