Very gently Benson began, starting with the recovery of Stephen's knife from Gibbs, and his trip across the plains.
She did not speak until he had quite finished; then she said in the long pause that followed:
“And you think—you think there is no hope?”
“None,” he said gravely.
With a sudden eloquent gesture she pressed her hands to her heart.
“I can't quite realize it yet,” she faltered; for how could he be dead when her love was all alive, when it had undergone no change? She was weighing each point; she would have given much to have believed there was yet hope; but since this could not be, she tried to believe death had been swift and merciful to the man she loved; and the man who loved her was so far forgotten, that afterward she suffered more than one accusing pang when she recalled how inadequate the expressions of her gratitude had been, measured by the weeks and months he had devoted to her service.
Benson seemed to divine that there was a question she wished to ask, but lacked the courage; and he proceeded to answer it in his own direct way.
“When I returned to Salt Lake I made arrangements to have a block of granite cut to mark the spot. I suppose it has been conveyed to the mountains before this. I should have waited to see it in place only I feared the winter might set in and prevent my return to the States until spring; I dared not risk that.”
“You have seen Anna?” she suddenly asked.
He understood; she wished to be alone. He realized this with a quick sense of disappointment. He rose reluctantly from his chair.