"There are other lives you can know. Can't you forego this idea of vengeance? Can't you forget it?" The man gave a short and hollow laugh. "I reckon so," he answered. Then, as his eyes flashed wildly, his utterance rose and snapped out the remainder of his response. "When Henry Falkins is dead an' buried--damn him!" Minerva stood looking into the face that was close to her own. It was a face branded and stamped with so fierce a vindictiveness that she realized the hopelessness of argument. It would have been as easy to persuade a maniac to become sane by asking him to lay aside his lunacy. She turned and dropped into her chair, then, looking straight ahead at the blazing logs, she went on, holding her voice steady and even: "When you were in jail, Newty--at Jackson--I tried to see you. But they--they wouldn't let me." The bitterness left his eyes, and he bent suddenly forward. "Ye tried ter see me--in ther jail-house? What fer did ye do thet?" "I wanted to tell you, I was sorry--and to beg you to give up--your idea. I didn't know until that day that you were nursing a grudge--against Mr. Falkins." For a while, Newt stood silent. Finally, he said curtly: "I'm obleeged ter ye." "But that isn't all, Newt." Minerva's hands were clasped in her lap, and the fingers twined themselves nervously and tightened as she went on. "I've got to tell you all of it. I heard that morning--what you aimed to do--and I went to Jackson--to warn him." The mountaineer drew back, and over his pale face passed a paroxysm of bitterness, which at first left him wordless. His posture grew rigid, and, if Minerva Rawlins had been capable of physical fear, she would have felt it then, because she was looking into eyes burning with the fire of mono-mania. But, at last, he spoke in the same dead voice, and only to ask a question: "How did ye know? Who betrayed me?" "I can't tell you that. I knew that, if you succeeded, you would ruin your life--as well as end his. You are bound to see sometime that all this idea of a man's being his own judge and jury and executioner is wicked, and then--if you had succeeded--" She raised her hands in a despairing gesture, and broke off. Once more the boy had become stiff in his attitude, and his face seemed a gargoyle of hatred. "Ef I'm goin' ter be so plumb miserable erbout hit," he said slowly, "I mout as well suffer fer a couple as fer one. Who war hit thet betrayed me?" Minerva shook her head. "You think of Henry Falkins as your bitter enemy. He isn't, Newt. He's not any man's enemy. Only he has lived in the civilized world as well as here, and he knows that a system that's built on murder is wrong. You know only the Henry Falkins that you've imagined. I know how terrible it must have been down there--at Frankfort.... I know that you had little else to think about.... But just for that very reason you can't trust the ideas that came to you down there. The real Henry Falkins isn't the man you think."