killed Kells. It seemed utterly impossible to touch that hateful
thing. But now that she had liberated herself, and at such cost, she
must not yield to sentiment. Resolutely she started for the cabin,
but when she reached it her steps were dragging. The long, dull-blue
gun lay where she had dropped it. And out of the tail of averted
eyes she saw a huddled shape along the wall. It was a sickening
moment when she reached a shaking hand for the gun. And at that
instant a low moan transfixed her.

She seemed frozen rigid. Was the place already haunted? Her heart
swelled in her throat and a dimness came before her eyes. But
another moan brought a swift realization--Kells was alive. And the
cold, clamping sickness, the strangle in her throat, all the
feelings of terror, changed and were lost in a flood of instinctive
joy. He was not dead. She had not killed him. She did not have blood
on her hands. She was not a murderer.

She whirled to look at him. There he lay, ghastly as a corpse. And
all her woman's gladness fled. But there was compassion left to her,
and, forgetting all else, she knelt beside him. He was as cold as
stone. She felt no stir, no beat of pulse in temple or wrist. Then
she placed her ear against his breast. His heart beat weakly.

"He's alive," she whispered. "But--he's dying. ... What shall I do?"

Many thoughts flashed across her mind. She could not help him now;
he would be dead soon; she did not need to wait there beside him;
there was a risk of some of his comrades riding into that
rendezvous. Suppose his back was not broken after all! Suppose she
stopped the flow of blood, tended him, nursed him, saved his life?