“Is this all?” she asked, as she turned toward the door, as though to end the interview. “No.” “What else have you to say?” “I am under sentence of death.” “I am well aware of that.” “I am to die upon the gallows.” “So I know.” “That will disgrace you.” “In what way, pray, will it affect me?” “I am your husband.” “Alas, yes!” “And you will, then, feel the dishonor.” “It will not be known.” “It might leak out.” “I shall take good care that it shall not.” “Well, that is all the sympathy you show.” “For you, yes.” “I who saved your life.” “Yes, and then wrecked it.” “You are a very beautiful wreck.” “Thank you.” “You have grown more beautiful since I saw you last.” “My heart is not seen.” “Then it is hurt, is it?” “It was cruelly hurt, yes, and by you, as well you are aware, Silk Lasso Sam, the outlaw. But I got over the wound, the sting of dishonor of becoming your wife, and I shall bury the past in the grave with you. If I am bitter, seemingly heartless now, your cruelty made me so; but you did not destroy my whole trust in manhood, thank Heaven, and I may yet find new happiness in life.” “In wedding Colonel Dunwoody?” sneered the man. He expected to see her start at his words. But she did not even change color, and answered most serenely: “Yes, if I can win him, when, by your death upon the gallows, I become a widow.” “Why observe such formalities as my being alive?” “Because you have not made me so vile as you are, embittered though my life has been,” was the stern response. “Well, I am sorry to block your game, but I must.” “What do you mean?” “I mean simply that I cannot find it in my heart to die just to make you a widow.” “I do not yet understand.” “I must be more explicit. I do not intend to die.” “You mean that you will not die on the gallows?” “Yes, about that.” “But you are sentenced.” “Yes, and have stood under the shadow of death a hundred times, yet live.” “This time there will be no escape for you.” “Oh, yes, there will.” “Do you intend to commit suicide?” “Oh, no, I do not intend to hand in my checks yet, but to live.” “There is no pleading for pardon that will save you.” “I do not intend to plead.” “And nothing that I could say would be of avail.” “I do not ask you to say anything.” “What, then?” “To act.” “What can I do?” “Much.” “I can do nothing for you, nothing whatever.” “Let me tell you that, unaided, from this place I could not escape. I am sorry, very sorry, not to make a widow of you in a few weeks, so that you could wed the colonel, but I cannot die just to oblige you, and so I call upon you to save me. A moment’s thought will prove to you that you are to-day in command of about half the officers in the fort, married and single, while Miss Clarice Carr divides the honors with you, and I will admit, for candor urges me to do so, that she holds perhaps a trifle more power.” “Then get her to aid you.”