could no more fire at this girl, even had he a chance--and he
realized he was at her mercy--than he could at his sister; and he
lay with his eyes bent on hers, trying to read her purpose.

She stood guarded, but motionless with surprise. De Spain turned
himself slowly and, sitting up, waited for her to speak. There was
little to hope for, he thought, in her expression. And all of his
duplicity seemed to desert him before her cold resolution. The tricks
he would have tried, at bay before a man, he felt no inclination to
attempt. He read in her set face only abhorrence and condemnation, and
felt in no way moved to argue her verdict. "I suppose," he said, at
length, not trying to disguise his bitter resentment of her presence,
"you've come to finish me."

His shirt stained and tattered for bandages, his hair matted in blood
on his forehead, his eyes inflamed and sunken, his lips crusted and
swollen, the birthmark fastened vividly on his cheek made him a
desperate sight. Regarding him steadily, Nan, as bewildered as if she
had suddenly come on a great wounded beast of prey still dangerous,
made no response to his words. The two stared at each other defiantly
and for another moment in silence. "If you are going to kill me," he
continued, looking into her eyes without any thought of appeal, "do it
quick."

Something in his long, unyielding gaze impelled her to break the spell
of it. "What are you doing here?" she demanded with anger, curbing her
voice to control her excitement as best she could.

De Spain, still looking at her, answered only after a pause. "Hiding,"
he said harshly.

"Hiding to kill other men!" Nan's accusation as she clutched her rifle
was almost explosive.

He regarded her coolly, and with the interval he had had for thinking,
his wits were clearing. "Do I look like a man hunting for a fight?
Or," he added, since she made no answer, "like a man hunting for a
quiet spot to die in? How," he went on slowly, delirium giving place
to indignation, "can you say I'm hiding here to kill other men? That's
what your people tell you, is it?"

"I know you are a murderer."

In spite of his weakness he flushed. "No," he exclaimed sharply, "I'm
not a murderer. If you think it"--he pointed contemptuously to her
side--"you have your rifle--use it!"

"My rifle is to defend myself with. I am not a public executioner,"
she answered scornfully.

"You need no rifle to defend yourself from me--though I am a
murderer