quickly to the white silk shirt he had that day bought of Marquette.
There was a widening splotch of red at the side, below the shoulder.

"Are you badly hurt?" she asked coolly.

"I don't know. I guess not. Good night, Ygerne."

"I thought that somewhere in you there was the soul of a gentleman,"
she said, her voice rising in clear scorn. "You are nothing but brute!"

"Nothing but brute," he repeated after her harshly. "You are quite
right."

She looked at him fixedly a moment. Meeting her eyes he saw a swift
change come. She was smiling at him now quite as though nothing
unpleasant had arisen during a commonplace evening; she even put out
her hand, the ungloved one which had shot him two minutes ago, and said
lightly:

"I haven't thanked you for a very pleasant evening, Mr. Drennen. It is
one I shall not forget soon. Good night."

For a moment he made no answer. Instead he stood looking steadily,
curiously at her. Then suddenly he stooped a little, caught up her
hand and brushed it lightly with his lips; the right, ungloved hand.
Then he turned away.

She saw that he steadied himself by the fence about Marquette's yard
and now was moving slowly toward his dugout. He had forgotten to put
on his hat and still held it crumpled in his hand. She stood for a
little while staring after him. Then she went into the house, closing
the door softly.

Drennen, making his slow way homeward, met the men Lemarc and Sefton in
a place where the light from an open door streamed across the road.
Before Lemarc cried out Drennen had seen the working muscles of his
face; the man was in the grip of a terrible rage.

"Damn you," cried Lemarc wildly. "What have you done? That was
Ygerne's gun; I know it. If you have laid a hand on her . . ."

"Stand aside, you fool," snapped Drennen, less angry at Lemarc than at
himself for his own physical weakness.

"I tell you," shouted Lemarc, his hand whipping out from under his coat
and upward, the lamp rays from the house running down the keen
two-edged steel, "if you . . ."

"Shut up, Marc." It was Captain Sefton's voice, sharp and threatening
and steady with its cold anger. Drennen, looking to him, saw in his
face a fury no less than Lemarc's but held under control. "Things are
bad enough as they are."

"What do I care?" snarled Lemarc, wrenching at the hand Sefton had shot
out to his arm. "If you think I'll stand for everything . . ."

"You'll stand for anythi