I'll lock
you in here, an' when I get back have the saddle-bags full of
meat an bread. An' be ready to ride!"
"Lassiter!" cried Jane.
Desperately she tried to meet his gray eyes, in vain, desperately
she tried again, fought herself as feeling and thought resurged
in torment, and she succeeded, and then she knew.
"No--no--no!" she wailed. "You said you'd foregone your
vengeance. You promised not to kill Bishop Dyer."
"If you want to talk to me about him--leave off the Bishop. I
don't understand that name, or its use."
"Oh, hadn't you foregone your vengeance on--on Dyer?
"Yes."
But--your actions--your words--your guns--your terrible looks!...
They don't seem foregoing vengeance?"
"Jane, now it's justice."
"You'll--kill him?"
"If God lets me live another hour! If not God--then the devil who
drives me!"
"You'll kill him--for yourself--for your vengeful hate?"
"No!"
"For Milly Erne's sake?"
"No."
"For little Fay's?"
"No!"
"Oh--for whose?"
"For yours!"
"His blood on my soul!" whispered Jane, and she fell to her
knees. This was the long-pending hour of fruition. And the habit
of years--the religious passion of her life--leaped from
lethargy, and the long months of gradual drifting to doubt were
as if they had never been. "If you spill his blood it'll be on my
soul--and on my father's. Listen.
Pages:
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365