As if groping her tortured way back from pits of madness, the woman strove to focus her senses, but her wild eyes encountered the dark and crumpled mass on the floor and again a low shriek broke from her. She turned her horrified face away and surrendered to a fresh paroxysm, but at length she stammered between gasps that wrenched her tightened throat: "Kiver him up first, Ken. Kiver him up ... I kain't endure ter look at him thetaway!" Although the moments were pricelessly valuable, the man straightened the contorted limbs of the dead body and covered it decently with a quilt. Then he stood again by the bed. "Ef I'd got hyar a minute sooner, Sally," he said, slowly, and there was a trace of self-accusation in his voice, "hit moutn't hev happened. I war jest a mite too tardy--but I knows ye hed ter kill him. I knows ye acted in self-defence." From the bed came again the half-insane response of hysterical moaning, and the young mountaineer straightened his shoulders. "His folks," he said in a level voice, "won't skeercely listen ter no reason.... They'll be hell-bent on makin' somebody pay.... They'll plum hev ter hang SOME person, an' hit kain't be _you_." The woman only shuddered and twisted spasmodically as she lay there while her brother went doggedly on: "Hit kain't be _you_ ... with yore baby ter be borned, Sally. Hit's been punishment enough fer ye ter endure him this long ... ter hev been wedded with a brute ... but ther child's got hits life ter live ... an' hit kain't be borned in no jail house!" "I reckon--" the response came weakly from the heaped-up covers--"I reckon hit's _got_ ter be thetaway, Ken." "By God, no! Yore baby's got ter w'ar a bad man's name--but hit'll hev a good woman's blood in hits veins. They'll low I kilt him, Sally. Let 'em b'lieve hit. I hain't got no woman nor no child of my own ter think erbout ... I kin git away an' start fresh in some other place. I loves ye, Sally, but even more'n thet, I'm thinkin' of thet child thet hain't borned yit--a child thet hain't accountable fer none of this." * * * * * That had been yesterday. Now, Kenneth Thornton, though that was not to be his name any longer, stood alone near the peak of a divide, and the mists of early morning lay thick below him. They obliterated, under their dispiriting gray, the valleys and lower forest-reaches, and his face, which was young and resolutely featured, held a kindred mood of shadowing depression. Beneath that miasma cloak of morning fog twisted a river from which the sun would strike darts of laughing light--when the sun had routed the opaqueness suspended between night and day. In the clear gray eyes of the man were pools of laughter, too, but now they were stilled and shaded under bitter reflections.