Winston sat gazing at the delicate contour of her face, partially
turned away from him, the long, silken lashes shading eyes lowered upon
the floor. A single gleam of the westering sun rested in golden beauty
across her dark hair, stirred by the slight breeze blowing through the
open window. In the silence he could hear his heart beat, and
distinguish the faint sound of her breathing. She was the first to
speak, yet without moving her head.
"Is it true that you are now under arrest?" she questioned, her voice
scarcely audible.
"Technically yes, although, as you may perceive, the sheriff is
powerless to prevent an escape if I desired to attempt one."
"Is it because of that--that charge he made?"
He arose to his feet in brave attempt at self-control.
"Oh, no, certainly not! I think that was merely a threat, a cowardly
threat, utterly without provocation, without purpose, unless he sought
in that way to work you a serious injury. The real charge against me
is murder. It appears that the man I fought with in the mine later
died from his injuries."
She turned both face and body toward him, her eyes filled with agony.
"The man died? Will it be possible for you to prove yourself innocent?"
"It may be possible, but it does not appear easy. I hope to show that
all I did was in self-defence. I did not strike the man a deadly blow;
in the struggle he fell and was injured on the sharp rocks. In every
sense his death was unintentional, yet there is nothing to sustain me
but my own testimony. But I shall not flee from the issue. If I have
taken human life I will abide the judgment. God knows I never dreamed
of killing the man; never once supposed him seriously injured. You, at
least, believe this?"
"I believe all you tell me."
The man's grasp on the casing of the window tightened, his eyes upon
the mass of black hair.
"Strangely enough," he continued, "this whole affair has gone wrong
from the start; nothing has turned out in the natural way. Criminals
have been made into officers of the law, and honest men changed into
outlaws. Now it seems impossible to conjecture how the adventure will
terminate."
She sat looking up at him, scarcely seeing his face, her hands clasped
in her lap.
"'All the world 's a stage, and all the men and women merely players,'"
she said, quoting the familiar words as if in a dream. "We are such
puppets in the great play! How strange it all is! How dangerously
close real life is, always skirting the precipice of tragedy! Plans
fail, lines tangle, and lives are changed forever by events seemingly
insignificant. To-morrow is always mystery. I wonder, is it not a dim
consciousness of this that renders the stage so attractive to the
multitude? Even its burlesques, its lurid melodramas, are never
utterly beyond the possible. Everywhere are found stranger stories
than any romancer can invent; and yet we sometimes term our lives
commonplace." She leaned back against the wall, a sob coming into her
voice. "What--what is going to be the end of this--for me?"