"Why did you think so?" he asked.
"You talked when you were out of your head. That's why I first took pity on you. I never saw a man suffer in mind as you did. You rolled and tumbled the first two or three nights and begged for forgiveness; often you spoke so loud I was afraid others in the house would hear."
He opened his palms before her. "These hands are soaked in human blood—innocent human blood," he said, tragically. "I don't deny it; if it would do a particle of good I'd tell every soul on earth. I won a good girl's love, and when I got tired of her and left her she killed herself to escape the misery I put her in. I was unworthy of her, but she didn't know it, or want to know it. Nobody knows she took her own life except me and her mother, and it has ruined her life—taken away her only comfort in old age and made her my mortal enemy. She never gives me a minute's rest—she reminds me constantly that I'll never get forgiveness and never be happily married, and she is right—I never shall. My wicked nature demands too much of a woman. I can love, and do love, with all my soul, but my pride cannot be subdued. I—"
"I understand, Mr. Westerfelt" she broke in, quickly. "Don't bring up that subject again. What you said when I last saw you was enough. It almost kept me from coming to-night, but it was my duty; but you do not have to say any more about that." She took a step backward and stood staring at him in mute misery. She had never felt that she was worthy of him, in a way, but his cold reference—as she understood it—to her misfortune released a spring of resentment she hardly knew was wound in her breast.
"Forgive me," he pleaded, trying to regain her hands. "I'll never mention it again. I promise you that—never again."
"It's all right," she answered, softening under his passionate gaze. "But it would be kind of you to avoid mentioning what I cannot help."
He was about to reply, but there was a sound of barking dogs from the mountain. "Go quick!" She caught her breath. "Don't wait! That may be them now. Don't let them kill you."
He did not stir. "You'd better go home," he said, calmly. "I don't care a straw what becomes of me. I've had enough of the whole business. I have got as much right to live as anybody else, and I will not be driven from pillar to post by a gang of outlaws, headed by a coward." He drew a revolver, and, half cocking it, carelessly twirled the cylinder with his thumb. "I've got five thirty-two-caliber shots here, and I think I can put some of them where they ought to go."
She pushed the revolver down with her hand. "No, no!" she cried, "you must not be reckless."
"I am a pretty good shot," he went on, bitterly, "and Toot Wambush shall be my first target, if I can pick him out. Then the rest may do what they like with me. You go home. It will do you no good to be seen with me."