en turning to
Mehetabel, he said, with a sneer, "The devil never does aught but
by halves."

"What do you mean?"

"The bullet has entered my arm and not my heart, as you desired."

"Go," she said to the young artist; "I pray you go and leave me
with him. I will take him home."

Iver demurred.

"I entreat you to go," she urged. "Go to your mother. Tell her that
my husband has met with an accident, and that I am called away to
attend him. That is to serve as an excuse. I must, I verily must
go with him. Do not say more. Do not say where this happened."

"Why not?"

She did not answer. He considered for a moment and then dimly saw
that she was right.

"Iver," she said in a low tone, so that Jonas might not hear, "you
should not have followed me; then this would never have happened."

"If I had not followed you he would have been your murderer,
Matabel."

Then, reluctantly, he went. But ever and anon turned to listen or
to look.

When he was out of sight, then Mehetabel said to her husband, "Lean
on me, and let me help you along."

"I can go by myself," he said bitterly. "I would not have his arm.
I will have none of yours. Give me my gun."

"No, Jonas, I will carry that for you."

Then he put forth his uninjured right hand, and took the kidney-iron
stone from the anvil block, on which Mehetabel had left it.

"What do you want with that?" she asked.

"I may have to knock also," he answered. "Is it you alone who are
allowed to have wishes?"

She said no more, but stepped along, not swiftly, cautiously, and
turning at every step, to see that he was following, and that he
had put his foot on substance that would support his weight.

"Why do you look at me?" he asked captiously.

"Jonas, you are in pain, and giddy with pain. You may lose your
footing, and go into the water."

"So--that now is your desire?"

"I pray you," she answered, in distress, "Jonas, do not entertain
such evil thoughts."

They attained a ridge of sand. She fell back and paced at his side.

Bideabout observed her out of the corners of his eyes. By the
moonlight he could see how finely, nobly cut was her profile; he
could see the glancing of the moon in the tears that suffused her
cheeks.

"You know who shot me?" he inquired, in a low tone.

"I know nothing, Jonas, but that there was a struggle, and that
during this struggle, by accident--"

"You did it."

"No, Jonas. I cannot think it."

"It was so. You touched the t