"Did you--knife me--that it hurts so?" he panted, raising a hand
that shook.
"I had--nothing. ... I just--fought," cried Joan, breathlessly.
"You hurt me--again--damn you! I'm never free--from pain. But this's
worse. ... And I'm a coward. ... And I'm a dog, too! Not half a
man!--You slip of a girl--and I couldn't--hold you!"
His pain and shame were dreadful for Joan to see, because she felt
sorry for him, and divined that behind them would rise the darker,
grimmer force of the man. And she was right, for suddenly he
changed. That which had seemed almost to make him abject gave way to
a pale and bitter dignity. He took up Dandy Dale's belt, which Joan
had left on the bed, and, drawing the gun from its sheath, he opened
the cylinder to see if it was loaded, and then threw the gun at
Joan's feet.
"There! Take it--and make a better job this time," he said.
The power in his voice seemed to force Joan to pick up the gun.
"What do--you mean?" she queried, haltingly.
"Shoot me again! Put me out of my pain--my misery. ... I'm sick of
it all. I'd be glad to have you kill me!"
"Kells!" exclaimed Joan, weakly.
"Take your chance--now--when I've no strength--to force you. ...
Throw the gun on me. ... Kill me!"
He spoke with a terrible impelling earnestness, and the strength of
his will almost hypnotized Joan into execution of his demand.
"You are mad," she said. "I don't want to kill you. I couldn't. ...
I just want you to--to be--decent to me."
"I have been--for me. I was only in fun this time--when I grabbed
you. But the FEEL of you! ... I can't be decent any more. I see
things clear now. ... Joan Randle, it's my life or your soul!"
He rose now, dark, shaken, stripped of all save the truth.
Joan dropped the gun from nerveless grasp.
"Is that your choice?" he asked hoarsely.
"I can't murder you!"
"Are you afraid of the other men--of Gulden? Is that why you can't
kill me? You're afraid to be left--to try to get away?"
"I never thought of them."
"Then--my life or your soul!"
He stalked toward her, loomed over her, so that she put out
trembling hands. After the struggle a reaction was coming to her.
She was weakening. She had forgotten her plan.
"If you're merciless--then it must be--my soul," she whispered. "For
I CAN'T murder you. ... Could you take that gun now--and press it
here--and murder ME?"