“Murder!” ejaculated Gallagher dreamily, as if he had heard the word for the first time in his life and he were reflecting on its significance, incredulously like a philosopher confronted unexpectedly by a stupendous superstition. Then his nostrils expanded and his face hardened into anger, as he realized her meaning and her attitude towards the sentence that was about to be passed on Gypo. “Murder, did you say? Great Scott! Do you call it murder to wipe out a serpent that has betrayed your brother? Where is your . . . ? Do you call yourself an Irishwoman? What? Good Lord! I don’t know what to make of it. What . . . ? Good Heavens!” “Listen to me, Dan,” she said, sobbing; “for God’s sake, listen to me before you do this. Listen. I didn’t know until now how awful it is. I was foolish the way I talked at home this evening when all the people were there. I was so mad the way father was talking that I thought I could shoot the man that informed on Frankie myself. But it would be murder, Dan, just the same as any other murder. And——” “Oh, hang it!” snapped Gallagher. “Dan,” she whispered, “don’t do it, for my sake. I love you. Don’t do it, for my sake and I’ll do anything you want me. I feel I’m the cause of this.” “Mary, do you love me?” whispered Gallagher excitedly, panting as he seized her right hand in both of his. He bent towards her. “Say it again. Say you love me.” But he drew back immediately, with a strange and unnatural presence of mind. He was afraid that the passing sentry might see him. Tears were rolling down Mary’s cheeks. She looked away towards the doorway. She kept silent. Gallagher leaned back from her, watching her face intently. He looked at her from under his bunched eyebrows. His lips were set firmly. His forehead convulsed. He appeared to be struggling with a savage passion and at the same time struggling to think coherently on the intellectual plane. He was trying to probe the movements of her mind so that he might conquer it with his mind. He wanted to conquer her mind and make her subject to him, to make her his mate on his own terms. He told himself that he was doing this, so that she might help him for the conquest of power. He refused to admit to himself that he was inspired by passion. He despised passion. The silence was very peculiar and tense. Mary was conscious of it. But Gallagher was not conscious of it. Then Mary spoke. She talked rapidly without looking at him. She talked in an irritated tone.