Was that only
the vitality of him--that awful light in the eyes--only the
hard-dying life of a tremendously powerful brute? A broken
whisper, strange as death: "MAN--WHY--DIDN'T--YOU WAIT!
BESS--WAS--" And Oldring plunged face forward, dead.
"I killed him," cried Venters, in remembering shock. "But it
wasn't THAT. Ah, the look in his eyes and his whisper!"
Herein lay the secret that had clamored to him through all the
tumult and stress of his emotions. What a look in the eyes of a
man shot through the heart! It had been neither hate nor ferocity
nor fear of men nor fear of death. It had been no passionate
glinting spirit of a fearless foe, willing shot for shot, life
for life, but lacking physical power. Distinctly recalled now,
never to be forgotten, Venters saw in Oldring's magnificent eyes
the rolling of great, glad surprise--softness--love! Then came a
shadow and the terrible superhuman striving of his spirit to
speak. Oldring shot through the heart, had fought and forced back
death, not for a moment in which to shoot or curse, but to
whisper strange words.
What words for a dying man to whisper! Why had not Venters
waited? For what? That was no plea for life. It was regret that
there was not a moment of life left in which to speak. Bess
was--Herein lay renewed torture for Venters. What had Bess been
to Oldring? The old question, like a specter, stalked from its
grave to haunt him.
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