at
you might have to kill him, to rid me of him. You were my weapon. And I
used you. Do you blame me that I used you?"

"Daniel and I were destined to meet, just as you and I were destined to
meet," said I. "I had to prove myself on him. It would have happened
anyway. Had I not stood up to him you would not have loved me."

"That was not the price," she sighed. "Maybe you don't understand yet. I'm
so afraid you don't understand," she pleaded. "At the last I had resigned
you, I would have left you free, I saw how you felt; but, oh, it happened
just the same--we were fated, and you showed that you hated me."

"I never hated you. I was perplexed. That was a part of love," said I.

"You mean it? You are holding nothing back?" she asked, anxious.

"I am holding nothing back," I answered. "As you will know, I think, in
time to come."

Again we reclined, silent, at peace: a strange peace of mind and body, to
which the demonstrations by the waiting Sioux were alien things.

She spoke.

"Are we very guilty, do you think?"

"In what, dearest?"

"In this, here. I am already married, you know."

"That is another life," I reasoned. "It is long ago and under different
law."

"But if we went back into it--if we escaped?"

"Then we should--but don't let's talk of that."

"Then you should forget and I should return to Benton," she said. "I have
decided. I should return to Benton, where Montoyo is, and maybe find
another way. But I should not live with him; never, never! I should ask
him to release me."

"I, with you," I informed. "We should go together, and do what was best."

"You would? You wouldn't be ashamed, or afraid?"

"Ashamed or afraid of what?"

She cried out happily, and shivered.

"I hope we don't have to. He might kill you. Yes, I hope we don't have to.
Do you mind?"

I shook my head, smiling my response. There were tears in her eyes,
repaying me.

Our conversation became more fitful. Time sped, I don't know how, except
that we were in a kind of lethargy, taking no note of time and hanging
fast to this our respite from the tempestuous past.

Once she dreamily murmured, apropos of nothing, yet apropos of much:

"We must be about the same age. I am not old, not really very old."

"I am twenty-five," I answered.

"So I thought," she mused.

Then, later, in manner of having revolved this idea also, more distinctly
apropos and voiced with a certain triumph:

"I'm glad we drank water when we mig