se," retorted Rodman excitedly, "you'd say that. You're
looking down a gun-barrel. You're talking for your life. Of course,
you'd lie."

Then, the revolutionist did a foolish and unguarded thing. He came a
step nearer, and pressed the muzzle closer against Saxon's chest, his
own eyes glaring into those of his captive. The movement threw Saxon's
hands out of his diminished field of sight. In an instant, the painter
had caught the wrist of the slighter man in a grip that paralyzed the
hand, and forced it aside. The pistol fell from the nerveless fingers,
and dropped clattering to the flagstones. As it struck, Saxon swept it
backward with his foot.

Rodman leaped frantically backward, and stood for a moment rearranging
his crumpled cuff with the dazed manner of a man who hopes for no
quarter. His lower jaw dropped, and he remained trembling, almost
idiotic of mien. Then, as Saxon picked up the weapon and stood
fingering its trigger, the filibuster drew himself up really with
dignity. He stretched out both empty hands, and shrugged his
shoulders.

The fear of an enemy silently stalking him had filled his days with
terror. Now that he regarded death as certain, his cowardice dropped
away like a discarded cloak.

"I don't ask much," he said simply; "only, for God's sake kill me
here! Don't surrender me to the government! At least, let the other
fellows know that I was dead before their plans were betrayed."

"I told you," said Saxon in a dull voice, "that I had no designs on
you. I meant it! I told you I had forgotten. I meant it!"

As he spoke, Saxon's head dropped forward on his chest, and he stood
breathing heavily. The moonlight, falling full on his face, showed
such heart-broken misery as might have belonged to the visage of some
unresting ghost in an Inferno. His eyes were the eyes of utter
despair, and the hand that held the pistol hung limp at his side, the
weapon lying loose in its palm. Rodman stood wide-eyed before him. Had
he already been killed and returned to life, he could hardly have been
more astonished, and, when Saxon at last raised his face and spoke
again, the astonishment was greater than ever.

"Take your gun," said the painter, raising his hand slowly, and
presenting the weapon stock first. "If you want to kill me--go ahead."

Rodman, for an instant, suspected some subterfuge; then, looking into
the eyes before him, he realized that they were too surcharged with
sadness to harbor either venge