“You have read—murderer!”
“I have read it.” De Launay’s voice was like his face, and in both appeared a trace of contempt.
“What have you to say before I kill you?”
“That you would have shot before now had you been able to do it,” answered De Launay, and now the note of contempt was deeper. He turned his back to her and leaned forward over the fire, one outstretched hand upon the stone slab that formed the rude mantel.
The girl stood there immobile. The hand that held the pistol was not raised nor lowered. The thumb did not draw back the hammer. But over her face came, gradually, a change; a desperate sorrow, an abandonment of hope. Even the light in her hair that had made it a flaming wheel seemed in some mysterious way to die down. The terrible fire in her eyes went out as though drowned in rising tears.
A sob burst from her lips and her breast heaved. 273 De Launay gazed down upon the fire, and his face was bitter as though he tasted death.
Solange slowly reached behind her again and dropped the heavy weapon upon the log. Then, in a choked voice she struggled to call out:
“Monsieur Wallace! Will you come?”
In the next room there was a stirring of hasty movements. Sucatash raised a cheery and incongruous voice.
“Just a minute, mad’mo’selle! I’m comin’ a-runnin’.”