"I don't want to shoot you," said the girl presently, and,
through her voice's persistent sternness, Gavin fancied he
could read a thrill of very feminine concern. "I don't want
to shoot you. If I can help it. You will put your hands up."

Meekly, Brice obeyed.

"Now," she resumed, "you will turn around, and go back the way
you came. And you will go as fast as you can travel. I shall
follow you to the second turning. Then I shall fire into the
air. That will bring--one or more of the men. And they will
see you don't turn back. I'm--I'm giving you that much chance
to get away. Because I--I don't want--"

She hesitated. The grimness had begun to seep out of her
sweet voice. The revolver-muzzle wobbled, ever so little.

"I'm sorry," began Brice. "But--"

"I don't care to hear any explanations," she cut him short,
sternly. "Your coming along that path could mean only one
thing. You will do as I say.--You will turn about and make
what use you can of the start I'm offering you. Now--"

"I'm sorry," repeated Brice, more determinedly, and trying
hard to keep his twitching face straight. "But I can't do
what you ask. It was hard enough coming along that path,
while the light lasted. If I were to go back over it in the
dark, I'd break my neck on a million mangrove roots. If it's
just the same to you, I'll take my chances with the pistol.