self of the truth. It had never seemed very much to me before, but it did now, the blood tingling through my veins as the recollection returned. Perhaps she would hate me if she knew; beyond question she despised me already; yet to me the memory was like a flame. I would not yield to this fate; there was a chance for fighting yet, and I wanted to live, to clear my name for her sake. All at once it dawned upon me like a revelation that I loved her; that no other woman in all this world could ever take her position in my heart. I tried to recall each look, each word, which had passed between us, finding little enough to bring encouragement. Yet she had believed in me, held me as gentleman despite my uniform, had even pleaded in my behalf. Now I must prove to her my innocence of crime.
There was but one way-escape, and the running down of the real murderer. How it had been accomplished I could not even guess, but I had one name in my thought—Daniels. About him alone centred motive, opportunity, inclination. This was an act of feud, not war, and there was no one else whom I could connect with such a crime. He had hinted at persecution, and very naturally I had sympathized with him; but now I had the other side of the story, and felt inclined to believe that he alone was keeping the feud alive. There was nothing in the countenance of Big Donald to make me consider him a bloodthirsty monster, and surely Jean Denslow was animated by no mad spirit of revenge. Whatever the original cause, however great the provocation, nothing could justify the cowardly killing in cold blood of
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