Part 27 (1/2)

But with that utterance a strength surpa.s.sing that of sinew and muscle returned to her. She reached and knocked the cup from his hand; and its black contents, like dark blood, stained the sandy floor of the cavern.

Ben's first thought was curiously not of his own narrow escape, but was rather in concern for Beatrice. Whether or not he had actually swallowed any of the liquor in the cup he did not know; nor did he give the matter a thought. He was aware of only the terror-stricken girl before him, her face deathly white and her eyes starting and wide. He leaped to his feet.

Fearing that she was about to faint he steadied her with his hand. The echo of her scream died in the cavern, the cup rolled on the floor and came to a standstill against the wall; but still she made no sound, only gazing as if entranced. But slowly, as he steadied her, the blessed tears stole into her eyes and rolled down her white cheeks; and once more breath surged into her lungs.

”Never mind, Beatrice,” the man was saying, his deep, rough voice gentle as a woman's. ”Don't cry--please don't cry--just forget all about it.

Let's go over to your hammock and rest awhile.”

With a strong arm he guided her to her cot, and smiling kindly, pushed her down into it. ”Just take it easy,” he advised. ”And forget all about it. You'll be all right in a minute.”

”But you don't understand--you don't know--what I tried to do--”

”No matter. Tell me after a while, if you want to. Don't tell me at all if you'd rather not. I'm going back to my lunch.” He laughed, trying to bring her to herself. ”I wouldn't miss that caribou steak for anything--even though I can't have my tea. Just lay down a while, and rest.”

His rugged face lighted as he smiled, kindly and tolerantly, and then he turned to go. But her solemn voice arrested him.

”Wait, Ben. I want you to know--now--so you won't trust me again--or give me another chance. The cup--was poisoned.”

But the friendly light did not yet wane in his eyes. ”I didn't think it was anything very good--the way you knocked it out of my hand. We'll just pretend it was very bad tea--and let it go at that.”

”No. It was nightshade--it might have killed you.” She spoke in a flat, lifeless voice. ”I didn't want it to kill you--I just wanted to give you enough to put you to sleep--so I could take your rifle sh.e.l.ls and throw them away--but I was willing to let you drink it, even if it _did_ kill you.”

The man looked at her, in infinite compa.s.sion, then came and sat beside her in the hammock. Rather quietly he took one of her hands and gazed at it, without seeing it, a long time. Then he pressed it to his lips.

For a breath he held it close to his cheek, his eyes lightless and far away, and she gazed at him in amazement.

”You'd kiss my hand--after what I did--?”

”After what you _didn't_ do,” he corrected. ”Please, Beatrice--don't blame yourself. Some way--I understand things better--than I used to.

Even if you had killed me--I don't see why it wouldn't have been your right. I've held you here by force. Yet you didn't let me drink the stuff. You knocked it out of my hand.”

And now, for the first time, an inordinate amazement came into his face.

He looked at her intently, yet with no unfriendliness, no pa.s.sion.

Rather it was with overwhelming wonder.

”_You knocked it out of my hands_!” he repeated, more loudly. ”Oh, Beatrice--it's my turn to beg forgiveness now! When I was at your mercy, and the cup at my lips--you spared me. Why did you do it, Beatrice?”

He gazed at her with growing ardor. She shook her head. She simply did not know the reason.

”It's not your place to feel penitent,” he told her, with infinite sincerity. ”If you had let me take it, you'd have just served me right--you'd have just paid me back in my own coin. It was fair enough--to use every advantage you had. Good Lord, have you forgotten that I am holding you here by force? But instead--you saved me, when you might have killed me--and won the fight. All you've done is to show yourself the finer clay--that's what you've done. G.o.d knows I suppose the woman is always finer clay than the man--yet it comes with a jolt, just the same. It's not for you to be down-hearted--Heaven knows the strength you've shown is above any I ever had, or ever will have. You've shown how to feel mercy--I could never show anything but hate, and revenge. You've shown me a bigger and stronger code than mine. And there's nothing--nothing I can say.”

The tone changed once more to the personal and solicitous. ”But it's been a big strain on you--I can see that. I believe I'd lie here and rest awhile if I were you. I'll eat my dinner--and the fire's about out too. That's the girl--Beatrice.”

Gently he picked her up, seemingly with no physical effort and laid her in her hammock. ”Then--you'll forgive me?” she asked brokenly.

”Good Heavens, I wish there was something to forgive--so we'd be a little more even. But you've accomplished something, Beatrice--and I don't know what it is yet--I only know you've changed me--and softened me--as I never dreamed any one in the world could. Now go to sleep.”

He turned from her, but the food on the table no longer tempted him. For a full hour he stood before the ashes of the fire, deeply and inextricably bewildered with himself, with life, and with all these thoughts and hopes and regrets that thronged him. He was like ashes now himself; the fires of his life seemed burned out. The thought recalled him to the need of cutting fuel for the night's fire.