The Soul—to the last, could still triumph over the poor broken Body, and Love—glorious, all-forgiving Love—arise, victorious and conquering; through life—through death—aye—beyond the grave itself—to the very Resurrection Morn.
The sands of the poor sufferer’s existence were running out fast now. Benton shuddered when he thought of the horror that would surely come into those shining, steadfast eyes if she were told whose blood was upon his hands. Why disturb the brief space that was allotted to her by revealing the awful truth? It would be a crime, he reflected. He lied, bravely and whole-heartedly.
“No,” he said. “I haven’t arrested him, my girl. I was chasin’ after him, an’ scratched one of my ears pretty bad climbin’ through that barbed-wire fence alongside the track. A way-freight goin’ East pulled through just about five minutes after, an’ I guess he must have made his get-away on that.”
She drank in his words with an eagerness that tortured his conscience sorely, but a quick, joyful light dawned on her face as his reward, and she sank back on the pillows again with a little weary, gratified sigh of relief. The strain had been too much for her, however, and she began to choke pitifully, as a fresh gush of blood bubbled up from her lips and stained her white breast. He slipped an arm under her head and, tenderly as a woman might have done, he soothed and ministered to her paroxysm.
For some few minutes she lay in a sort of stupor, and he watched her anxiously, undecided whether or not to awaken Musgrave; but presently she revived a little and her breathing became easier. The flow of blood from her mouth had abated and, as she looked up and saw him supporting her, the pale lips relaxed into a faint semblance of their old roguish smile; when her face and bosom had been gently sponged, and she had drunk a glass of water, she spoke—almost in a whisper, but quite calmly and clearly:
“You ca-can’t—arrest me—now!”
The unutterable pathos of her pitiful little jest nearly broke him down then but, with a struggle, he raised his eyes and, with a twisted mouth, smiled valiantly back at her.
“What did—that—doctor—say?” she asked slowly. “Does he—think—I’ll—die? I feel so—very—weak—and—tired ... and my—chest—hurts me—terrible.... I think I—must be—dying.... Am I?... Look—at me—Policeman!... tell me.... Did he—say—I’m not—afraid....”
“Elsie, girl,” he said unsteadily. “Elsie, you’re—” He stopped and, choking a little, reached out a slightly shaking hand to smooth back the dark curly hair from her white forehead. “You’re going home, girl—you’re going home!”
She gazed at him searchingly for a few seconds, then turned her head away listlessly, with a sharp intake of her breath. There was a long silence which was broken by Ellis.