His hand reached and seized the handle of the cup.  Even now—­now—­he was raising it to his lips.  In an instant more he would be pouring it down his throat, too considerate of her to admit its unwholesome taste, drinking it down though it tasted the potion of death that it was!  The hair seemed to start on her head.

Then she seemed to writhe as in a convulsion.  Her voice rose in a piercing scream.  “Ben—­Ben—­don’t drink it!” she cried.  “God have mercy on my soul!”

But with that utterance a strength surpassing 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 shells and throw them away—­but I was willing to let you drink it, even if it did kill you.”