whom she so
abhorred and despised--despised even in death. She had been like Gratton
the cowardly, contemptible, petty, selfish--dishonourable! All along
Mark King had been right and she had been wrong, at every step. He had
been gentle and patient after a fashion which now set her wondering and,
in the end, lifted him to new heights in her esteem. When, without
loving him, she had lied with her eyes and married him, that had been a
Gratton sort of trick--like stealing his partners' food----

_Without loving him_! No, thank God; not that! She had always loved him;
she loved him now with her whole heart and soul, with an adoration she
had saved for him. When in the springtime she had ridden with him
through the forest-lands, when their hands had touched, when he had held
her in his arms--when she had seen him that first time from the stairway
and had looked down into his clear eyes and through them into his
heart--she had always loved him! She wanted suddenly to go to him, to
slip into his arms, to make herself humble in pleading for his
forgiveness. She was not afraid that he would not forgive; he was so big
of heart that he would understand.

"Mark!" she called softly.

In the utter dark she could see nothing. The absolute stillness was
unbroken. She called anxiously: "Mark, where are you?" There was no
answer. She sprang up and called to him over and over. When still there
was no reply she began a hurried search for a match; there were still
some upon the rock shelf. Then it was that she stumbled over something
sprawling on the floor.

"Mark!" she cried again. "Oh--Mark----"

She found a match; she got some dry twigs blazing. In their light she
saw him. He lay on his back like a dead man, his arms outflung, his
white face turned up toward hers. There was a great smear of blood
across his brow, the track of a bloody hand as it had sought to wipe a
gathering dimness out of his eyes. The fire burned brighter; she saw it
glisten upon a little pool of blood at her side. She knelt and bent over
him, scarcely breathing. If he were dead--if, after all this, Mark King
were dead----His eyes were closed; his face was deathly white, looking
the more ghastly from the dark stain across it. She lifted her own hand
that had touched his side and looked at it with wide frightened eyes;
it, too, was red. At that moment King's face was no ghastlier than hers.

For a little while she sat motionless, her brain reeling. But almost
im