"What is it, Steve, dear? you weren't hurt, were you?"
"Oh, to have killed him! to have killed a man, how horrible!" muttered Stephen, without lifting his head.
Katrine looked amazed. "Well, but he would have killed us if he could," she answered. "You kill a mosquito if it annoys you, and that's right. You only kill a man if he tries to kill you, that's quite fair."
"But a murderer!" and Stephen shuddered. She felt the shiver of horror under her hand.
"Isn't it better to be a murderer than murdered?" she asked, with a little smile, feeling she had an unanswerable argument.
"Murdered, your body is killed, murderer, your soul," came back in the same stifled voice.
Katrine was silent. She was thinking what a nuisance it was to have a soul that needed so much looking after, never seemed to do any good, and was always obtruding itself and spoiling your best moments of fun in this life.
"We'll take him away," she said softly, after a minute, noticing that Stephen kept his fingers closely locked over his eyes, as if to shut out some fearful sight. "Talbot, let's take him out," she said to their companion, who stood with his back to the fire watching them. Stephen made no sign.
Talbot and the girl walked over to the body. It was stiffening rapidly, and the wide-open eyes glared up glassily to the black rafters of the cabin.
"Might this be useful?" said Talbot, stooping over the man and half drawing the second large revolver from his belt.