He neither stirred nor spoke; a deep flush mounted to the roots of his short, curly hair. She smiled encouragement, thinking him young and embarrassed, and a trifle chagrined.
“Continue the Latin formula,” she nodded, laughing; “what follows, if you please——”
“Good God!” he broke out hoarsely.
And suddenly she knew there was nothing to follow except death—his or hers—realized she made an awful mistake—divined in one dreadful instant the unsuspected counter-mine beneath her very feet—cried out as she struck him full in the face with clenched fist, sprang back, whipping the revolver from her ragged bodice, dark eyes ablaze.
“Now,” she panted, “hands high—and turn your back! Quickly!”
He stood still, very pale, one sunburned hand covering the cheek which she had struck. There was blood on it. He heard her breathless voice, warning him to obey, but he only took his hand from his face, looked at the blood on palm and finger, then turned his hopeless eyes on her.
“Too late,” he said heavily. “But—I’d rather be you than I.... Look out of that window, Messenger!”
“Put up your hands!”
“Will you hold up your hands!”