'You do not know what it has meant to me, your shooting those two men
in papa's quarrel. But they lived and I have tried to forget it all.
If they had died, then what?' Her eyes widened. 'If you and Courtot
meet, what will happen? If he kills you, there is an end. If--if you
kill him, there is an end! Call it what you please, if it is not
murder, it is a man killing a man. And it is horrible!'

Mystified, he stared at her.

'What can I do?' he muttered. 'You would not have me run from him,
Helen? You do not want me to turn coward like that?'

'If you kill him,' she told him, her face dead-white, 'I will never
marry you. I will go away to-morrow. If you would promise me not to
shoot him, I would marry you this minute.'

He looked down into the ravine trail. Longstreet was appreciably
nearer. So was Courtot. Behind Sanchia lagged spiritlessly, seeming
of a mind to stop and turn back. He looked at Helen; she had had no
sleep, she was unstrung, nervous, distraught. He gnawed at his lip and
looked again toward Courtot.

'If you love me!' pleaded Helen wildly.

'I love you,' he said grimly. 'That is all that counts.'

He waited until she looked away from him. Then silently he drew his
gun from its holster; the thing was madness, but just now there was no
sanity in the universe. He could not run; he must not kill Courtot.
He dropped the gun behind him and with the heel of his boot thrust it