And this was the end
of it, and /there/ was the cause of it. Well, she should not escape
him; he would be revenged upon her at last. There was nothing but
death before /him/, she should die too.
He set his teeth, drew the loaded pistol from his pocket, cocked it
and lifted it to her breast.
What was the matter with the thing? He had never known the pull of a
pistol to be so heavy before.
No, it was not /that/. He could not do it. He could not shoot a
sleeping woman, devil though she was; he could not kill her in her
sleep. His nature rose up against it.
He placed the pistol on his knee, and as he did so she opened her
eyes. He saw the look of wonder gather in them and grow to a stare of
agonised terror. Her face became rigid like a dead person's and her
lips opened to scream, but no cry came. She could only point to the
pistol.
"Make a sound and you are dead," he said fiercely. "Not that it
matters though," he added, as he remembered that the scream must be
loud which could be heard in that raging gale.
"What are you going to do?" she gasped at last. "What are you going to
do with that pistol? And where do you come from?"
"I come out of the night," he answered, raising the weapon, "out of
the night into which you are going."
"You are not going to kill me?" she moaned, turning up her ghastly
face.
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