Looking at him—he was so terrible of aspect—she could not comprehend his words. Who was this man with the face gray as death, with eyes that would have made her shriek had she the strength, with the strange, ruthlessly bitter lips? Where was the gentle Lassiter? What was this presence in the hall, about him, about her—this cold, invisible presence? “Yes, it’s ended, Jane,” he was saying, so awfully quiet and cool and implacable, “an’ I’m goin’ to make a little call. I’ll lock you in here, an’ when I get back have the saddle-bags full of meat an bread. An’ be ready to ride!” “Lassiter!” cried Jane. Desperately she tried to meet his gray eyes, in vain, desperately she tried again, fought herself as feeling and thought resurged in torment, and she succeeded, and then she knew. “No—no—no!” she wailed. “You said you’d foregone your vengeance. You promised not to kill Bishop Dyer.” “If you want to talk to me about him—leave off the Bishop. I don’t understand that name, or its use.” “Oh, hadn’t you foregone your vengeance on—on Dyer?” “Yes.” “But—your actions—your words—your guns—your terrible looks!... They don’t seem foregoing vengeance?” “Jane, now it’s justice.” “You’ll—kill him?” “If God lets me live another hour! If not God—then the devil who drives me!” “You’ll kill him—for yourself—for your vengeful hate?” “No!” “For Milly Erne’s sake?” “No.” “For little Fay’s?” “No!” “Oh—for whose?” _“For yours!”_ “His blood on my soul!” whispered Jane, and she fell to her knees. This was the long-pending hour of fruition. And the habit of years—the religious passion of her life—leaped from lethargy, and the long months of gradual drifting to doubt were as if they had never been. “If you spill his blood it’ll be on my soul—and on my father’s. Listen.” And she clasped his knees, and clung there as he tried to raise her. “Listen. Am I nothing to you?” “Woman—don’t trifle at words! I love you! An’ I’ll soon prove it.” “I’ll give myself to you—I’ll ride away with you—marry you, if only you’ll spare him?” His answer was a cold, ringing, terrible laugh. “Lassiter—I’ll love you. Spare him!” “No.” She sprang up in despairing, breaking spirit, and encircled his neck with her arms, and held him in an embrace that he strove vainly to loosen. “Lassiter, would you kill me? I’m fighting my last fight for the principles of my youth—love of religion, love of father. You don’t know—you can’t guess the truth, and I can’t speak ill. I’m losing all. I’m changing. All I’ve gone through is nothing to this hour. Pity me—help me in my weakness. You’re strong again—oh, so cruelly, coldly strong! You’re killing me. I see you—feel you as some other Lassiter! My master, be merciful—spare him!” His answer was a ruthless smile.