The tears were running down her face, her poor quivering face which to his eyes looked so old, so unattractive. "I’ve done my best—my best." "If I was to clear out of this..." he said, returning to what occupied his mind. Why could she not believe him, realize that for her own sake, she must let him go? Even now it was not too late. He glanced at the brown jug on the stove—not too late yet. "No," she cried, "no, don’t ’ee go away." "One of us got to go, then." But she had found the answer, the word of power. "Not—not till death us do part," she responded. "Aw," he said, "and that’s it. Till death us do part," and he repeated the words as if they were the chorus of a song already sung, the refrain of a chant known long ago and until then forgotten. "Till death us do part." He had spoken throughout as if hardly conscious of his words, but now a spurt of irritation, irritation at her folly, shook him. "You and your ways!" he cried harshly. "’Tis you that’s responsible. You drove me to do things I wouldn’t do." Relieved by his return to this more ordinary mood Sabina’s courage rose. "’Tis your own self that ’arnessed the ’arse," she said with greater confidence. "I’ve ’ad nothing to do with it. My ’ands is clean." The man’s inconsequent attention was caught by her last words. Glancing stupidly at his hands he saw to his surprise, and swiftly growing consternation, that they were dark with blood. The minor events of the afternoon—the slaughter of the seal, its skinning, the ’running out’ of the oil, had been forgotten. He could see no reason, no reason but the one, for this significant stain. "Mine ’edn’t," he cried shaking them as if he would shake it off. "Can’t think whatever this is!" "Looks as tho’ you got blood on them." His first shuddering dismay changed to fear. He glanced at her sidelong. "’Ow ’av I got blood on my ’ands, can yer tell me?" "No, I can’t." She also had forgotten the trifling incident of the seal. "But ’tis certainly blood." To a man in Leadville’s confusion of mind, a confusion shot with flashes of clear thought, the age of miracles was not past. That the dark intention of his spirit should have been made supernaturally visible, did not seem impossible, not even improbable. "Get out—blood?" he cried furiously. "’Tis only dirt. I’ll go and wash them."