availed that to keep her, a creature of fire and dew, from the clutch
of emotions strange and poignant? He had called himself a liar and a
coyote, yet she knew it was not true, or at worst, true in some
qualified sense. He might be hard, reckless, even wicked in some ways.
But, vaguely, she felt that if he were a sinner he sinned with
self-respect. He was in no moral collapse, at least. It was impossible
to fit him to her conception of a spy. No, no! Anything but that!

So she sat there, her fingers laced about her knee, as she leaned
forward to wait upon the needs she could imagine for him, the dumb
tragedy of despair in her childish face.

The situation was one that made for terror. To be alone with a wounded
man, his hurt undressed, to hear his delirium and not to know whether
he might not die any minute-- this would have been enough to cause
apprehension. Add to it the darkness, her deep interest in him, the
struggle of her soul, and the dread of unseen murder stalking in the
silent night.

Though her thought was of him, it was not wholly upon him. She sat
where she could watch the window, Dick's revolver in another chair
beside her. It was a still, starry night, and faintly she could see
the hazy purple, mountain line. Somewhere beneath those uncaring stars
was the man who had done this awful thing. Was he far, or was he near?
Would he come to make sure he had not failed? Her fearful heart told
her that he would come.

She must have fought her fears nearly an hour before she heard the
faintest of sounds outside. Her hand leaped to the revolver. She sat
motionless, listening, with nerves taut. It came again presently, a