“Oh, I can’t—­I can’t!” she said, and her voice broke; but the girl gently pushed her to the door, where she stopped again, leaning against the lintel.  Across the way, the wounded Marcum, with a scowl of wonder, crawled out of his bed and started painfully to the door.  The girl saw him and her heart beat fast.

Inside, Becky lay with closed eyes.  She stirred uneasily, as though she felt some hated presence, but her eyes stayed fast, for the presence of Death in the room was stronger still.

“Becky!” At the broken cry, Becky’s eyes flashed wide and fire broke through the haze that had gathered in them.

“I want ye ter fergive me, Becky.”

The eyes burned steadily for a long time.  For two days she had not spoken, but her voice came now, as though from the grave.

“You!” she said, and, again, with torturing scorn, “You!” And then she smiled, for she knew why her enemy was there, and her hour of triumph was come.  The girl moved swiftly to the window—­she could see the wounded Marcum slowly crossing the street, pistol in hand.

“What’d I ever do to you?”

“Nothin’, Becky, nothin’.”

Becky laughed harshly.  “You can tell the truth—­can’t ye—­to a dyin’ woman?”

“Fergive me, Becky!”

A scowling face, tortured with pain, was thrust into the window.

“Sh-h!” whispered the girl, imperiously, and the man lifted his heavy eyes, dropped one elbow on the window-sill and waited.

“You tuk Jim from me!”

The widow covered her face with her hands, and the Marcum at the window—­brother to Jim, who was dead—­lowered at her, listening keenly.

“An’ you got him by lyin’ ‘bout me.  You tuk him by lyin’ ’bout me—­didn’t ye?  Didn’t ye?” she repeated, fiercely, and her voice would have wrung the truth from a stone.

“Yes—­Becky—­yes!”

“You hear?” cried Becky, turning her eyes to the girl.

“You made him believe an’ made ever’body, you could, believe that I was—­was bad” Her breath got short, but the terrible arraignment went on.

“You started this war.  My brother wouldn’t ‘a’ shot Jim Marcum if it hadn’t been fer you.  You killed Jim—­your own husband—­an’ you killed me.  An’ now you want me to fergive you—­you!” She raised her right hand as though with it she would hurl the curse behind her lips, and the widow, with a cry, sprang for the bony fingers, catching them in her own hand and falling over on her knees at the bedside.

“Don’t, Becky, don’t—­don’t—­don’t!”

There was a slight rustle at the back window.  At the other, a pistol flashed into sight and dropped again below the sill.  Turning, the girl saw Dave’s bushy black head—­he, too, with one elbow on the sill and the other hand out of sight.

“Shame!” she said, looking from one to the other of the two men, who had learned, at last, the bottom truth of the feud; and then she caught the sick woman’s other hand and spoke quickly.