of her blindness and touch her with some dreadful, poisonous wound?
You don't know my horror of that man, Pete. Oh, he kissed--kissed
me!" She shivered. "A murderer! Yes, a murderer. Oh, Ham Rutherford,
if I could only _make_ you see yourself! If I could give you my eyes
when they opened, and I saw Pete's beauty and Bella's sweetness and
the horrible ugliness of you! And then, day by day--you see, I was
afraid to let you know that I _had_ seen you. I was in terror of you,
of what you might do to me. I was afraid of you all; you had all
deceived me. Day by day I learned the utter distortion of you, mind,
body, and soul. How could I help but--but--" She faltered and half
turned to Pete, holding out her hands. Her indignation at the
treachery practiced upon her, an anger that had grown in silence to
unbearable heat, had spent itself in words. She was all for
consolation now--for sympathy. But Pete stepped back from her. He
was looking at Hugh, and his clear, young face was an open wound.

Hugh pushed himself up and slowly lifted his face. It was then that
he saw Sylvie's hands stretched out to Pete. He started--no one knew
what the convulsive movement meant; but as he started--the gun tripped
him. He caught it up carelessly, blindly. There was a flash--a crash.
Pete leaped and bent, holding his arm. Blood spurted between his
fingers, soaking his wet sleeve; and Sylvie, crying aloud, wrapped
him in trembling, protective arms.

"I'm not much hurt," he said half dazedly. "It--it was an accident.
He didn't mean it. I was looking at him. The gun went off. He didn't
shoot at me. . . . _Hugh_!"

The man was staring straight ahead of him, and now he drew his hand
across his eyes, the fingers crooked as though they tore a veil.