"I cannot slay him," I said.
"Do you then draw it," I replied, "and never rail more at the hangman!"
After a moment I unlocked and opened the door. As in a trance, Butler passed out into the moonlight; Mount stole close behind him, and I saw his broad knife glimmer as he followed.
"Let him go," I said, wearily. "I choke with all this foul intrigue. Is there no work to do, Jack, save the sheriff's? Faugh! Let him go!"
Butler slowly set foot to stirrup; Mount snatched the pistol from the saddle-holster with a savage sneer.
"No, no," he said. "Trust a scoundrel if you will, lad, but draw his fangs first. Oh, Lord above!—but I hate to let him go! Shall I? I'll give him a hundred yards before I fire! And I'll not aim at that! Shall I?"
If Butler heard him he made no sign. He turned in his saddle and looked at Silver Heels.
Should I let him loose on the world once more? God knows I am no prophet, nor pretend to see behind the veil; yet, as I stood there, looking on Walter Butler, I thought the haze that the moon spun in the garden grew red like that fearsome light which tinges the smoke of burning houses, and I remembered that dream I had of him, so long ago, when I saw him in the forest, with blood on him, and fresh scalps at his belt—and the scalps were not of the red men.
Should I, who had him in my power, and could now forever render the demon in him powerless—should I let him go free into the world, or send him forever to the dreadful abode of lost souls?