“Jane, the past is dead. In my love for you I forgot the past. This thing I’m about to do ain’t for myself or Milly or Fay. It’s not because of anythin’ that ever happened in the past, but for what is happenin’ right _now. It’s for you!_... An’ listen. Since I was a boy I’ve never thanked God for anythin’. If there is a God—an’ I’ve come to believe it—I thank Him now for the years that made me Lassiter!... I can reach down en’ feel these big guns, en’ know what I can do with them. An’, Jane, only one of the miracles Dyer professes to believe in can save him!” Again for Jane Withersteen came the spinning of her brain in darkness, and as she whirled in endless chaos she seemed to be falling at the feet of a luminous figure—a man—Lassiter—who had saved her from herself, who could not be changed, who would slay rightfully. Then she slipped into utter blackness. When she recovered from her faint she became aware that she was lying on a couch near the window in her sitting-room. Her brow felt damp and cold and wet, some one was chafing her hands; she recognized Judkins, and then saw that his lean, hard face wore the hue and look of excessive agitation. “Judkins!” Her voice broke weakly. “Aw, Miss Withersteen, you’re comin’ round fine. Now jest lay still a little. You’re all right; everythin’s all right.” “Where is—he?” “Who?” “Lassiter!” “You needn’t worry none about him.” “Where is he? Tell me—instantly.” “Wal, he’s in the other room patchin’ up a few triflin’ bullet holes.” _“Ah!... Bishop’ Dyer?”_ “When I seen him last—a matter of half an hour ago, he was on his knees. He was some busy, _but_ he wasn’t prayin’!” “How strangely you talk! I’ll sit up. I’m—well, strong again. Tell me. Dyer on his knees! What was he doing?” “Wal, beggin’ your pardon fer blunt talk, Miss Withersteen, Dyer was on his knees an’ _not_ prayin’. You remember his big, broad hands? You’ve seen ’em raised in blessin’ over old gray men an’ little curly-headed children like—like Fay Larkin! Come to think of thet, I disremember ever hearin’ of his liftin’ his big hands in blessin’ over a _woman_. Wal, when I seen him last—jest a little while ago—he was on his knees, _not_ prayin’, as I remarked—an’ he was pressin’ his big hands over some bigger wounds.” “Man, you drive me mad! Did Lassiter kill Dyer?” “Yes.” “Did he kill Tull?” “No. Tull’s out of the village with most of his riders. He’s expected back before evenin’. Lassiter will hev to git away before Tull en’ his riders come in. It’s sure death fer him here. An’ wuss fer you, too, Miss Withersteen. There’ll be some of an uprisin’ when Tull gits back.”