Her little fingers were plucking at mine, which were stubbornly gripped
about the revolver's stock. "I know you must not!" she answered. "You
must not take human life!" It was a commandment she uttered, and I
took it as such. Especially, when she added, "Do you think he would
kill in that fashion?"

That finished me. Aye, she knew how to beat down my defense; her
woman's insight had supplied her with an invincible argument. I
averted my eyes from hers, and hung my head; I allowed her to take the
revolver from my grasp.

For I knew the answer to her question. "He" would not creep into the
cabin and shoot Captain Swope. She meant Newman, and I knew that
Newman would scorn to do the thing I planned to do. Kill Swope in fair
fight, with chances equal? Newman might do that. But shoot him down
like a mad dog, when he was unprepared and perhaps unarmed--no, Newman
would not do that. Nor would any decent man.

I passed another milestone in my evolution into manhood, as I stood
there, hangdog and ashamed. I added another "don't" to my list.

She brushed back the hair from my forehead. Oh, there was magic in her
fingers. That gentle stroke restored my pride, my self-respect. It
was a gesture of understanding. I felt now as I felt the first time I
saw the lady, like a little boy before a wise and merciful mother. I
knew the lady understood. She knew my heart was clean, my motive good.

She held up the weapon she had taken from me. "This--is not the way,"
she said. "It is never the way. You must not!"

"I must not," I echoed. "Yes, ma'am; I won't do it now.
But--what--how----"

I floundered and stopped. "What--how," aye, that was it. If I did not
kill Captain Swope what would happen to Newman? That was the question
that hammered against my mind, that sent a wave of sick fear through
me. If I did not kill Swope--then Newman was lost.

"But--I must do something," I added, miserably. "You know what will
happen when the hands come aft. It will be the skipper's excuse;
Newman told me it would. I can't see him butchered without doing
something to prevent it. Why, ma'am, Newman is my friend!"

"He is my life," said she. Her voice was so low I barely caught the
words. "But I would not buy his life with murder; it would lower him
to their level." She swayed, and clutched at my shoulder; I thought
she was falling, and gripped her arm to steady her. But she was not
the swooning kind. Not the la