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?
For if there were one chance of his living, which she doubted, it
must be through her. Would he not be the same savage the hour he was
well and strong again? What difference could she make in such a
nature? The man was evil. He could not conquer evil. She had been
witness to that. He had driven Roberts to draw and had killed him.
No doubt he had deliberately and coldly murdered the two ruffians,
Bill and Halloway, just so he could be free of their glances at her
and be alone with her. He deserved to die there like a dog.