or turn him aside. And it was then that
my eye fell on the big Colt in its stained leather holster, hanging up
high over one corner of the book-cabinet, where it had been put beyond
the reach of the children.

I have no memory of giving any thought to the matter. My reaction must
have been both immediate and automatic. I don't think I even intended
to bunt my husband in the short-ribs the way I did, for the impact of
my body half twisted him about and sent him staggering back several
steps. All I know is that holster and belt came tumbling down as I
sprang and caught at the Colt handle. And I was back at the door
before I had even shaken the revolver free. I was back just in time to
hear my husband say, rather foolishly, for the third time: "Get out of
my way!"

"You stay back there!" I called, quite as foolishly, for by this time
I had the Colt balanced in my hand and was pointing it directly at his
body.

He stopped short, with a vacuous look in his eyes.

"_You fool!_" he said, in a sort of strangled whisper. But it was my
face, and not the weapon, that he was staring at all the while.

"Stay back!" I said again, with my eyes fixed on his.

He hesitated, for a moment, and made a sound that was like the short
bark of a laugh. It was too hard and horrible, though, ever to be
taken for laughter. And I knew that he was not going to do what I had
said.

"Stay back!" I warned him still again. But he stepped forward, with a
grim sort of deliberation, with his challenging gaze locked on mine. I
could hear a thousand warning voices, somewhere at the back of my
brain, and at the same time I could hear a thousand singing devils in
my blood trying to drown out those voices. I could see my husband's
narrowed eyes slowly widen, slowly open like the gills of a dying
fish, for the hate that he must have seen on my face obviously
arrested him. It arrested him, but it arrested him only for a moment.
He dropped his eyes to the Colt in my hand. Then he moved deliberately
forward until his body was almost against the barrel-end. I must have
known what it meant, just as he must have known what it meant. It was
his final challenge. And I must have met that challenge. For, without
quite knowing it, I shut my eyes and pulled the trigger.

There had been something awful, I know, in that momentary silence. And
there was something awful in the sound that came after it, though it
was not the sound my subconscious mind was waiting for.