Yes, in glad defiance of a Gloria that had been, she was proud of the manhood of a man who had beaten her!  He had been right; he had done that as the last argument with an empty-headed, selfish girl who deserved no better at his hands, a girl who had been like the Gratton 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.