‘If you kill him,’ she told him, her face dead-white, ’I will never marry you.  I will go away to-morrow.  If you would promise me not to shoot him, I would marry you this minute.’

He looked down into the ravine trail.  Longstreet was appreciably nearer.  So was Courtot.  Behind Sanchia lagged spiritlessly, seeming of a mind to stop and turn back.  He looked at Helen; she had had no sleep, she was unstrung, nervous, distraught.  He gnawed at his lip and looked again toward Courtot.

‘If you love me!’ pleaded Helen wildly.

‘I love you,’ he said grimly.  ‘That is all that counts.’

He waited until she looked away from him.  Then silently he drew his gun from its holster; the thing was madness, but just now there was no sanity in the universe.  He could not run; he must not kill Courtot.  He dropped the gun behind him and with the heel of his boot thrust it away from him so that it fell into a fissure in the rock.  He turned again to watch Courtot coming on.

The eerie light of uncertainty which is neither day nor night lay across the hills.  It was utterly silent.  Then, the rattle of stones below; horse and rider were so close that they could see Longstreet’s upturned face.  Courtot was close behind him; Courtot looked up and they could see his face.

‘You must go, now,’ whispered Helen.  ‘You have promised me.’

‘I am keeping my promise,’ he said sternly.  ’But I am not going to run from him.  You would hate me for being a coward, Helen.’

She looked at him, puzzled.  Then she saw that the holster at his hip was empty.

‘Oh,’ cried Helen wildly, ’not that!  You must kill him, Alan.  I was mad with fear.  I——­’

Stopping the flow of her words there swept over her the paralyzing certainty that it was useless to batter against fate; that a man’s destiny was not to be thrust aside by a woman’s love.  For out of the silence there burst a sound which to her quivering nerves was fraught with word of death; that sound which in countless human hearts presages a death before the dawn—­the long, lugubrious howling of a dog.  It seemed to her to burst out of the nothingness of the sky, to arise in the void of an unseen ghostly world where spirit voices foretold the onrush of destruction.

Jim Courtot was hurrying up the slope.  They saw him stop dead in his tracks.  He, too, seemed turned to stone by the sound.  It came again, the terrible howling of a dog, nearer as though the creature sped across the hills on the wings of the quickening morning wind.  Sanchia stopped and began to draw back.  Longstreet came on unconcernedly.

A third time, and again nearer, came the strange baying.  Courtot held where he was, balancing briefly.  Then they heard him cry out, his voice strange and hoarse; he whirled about and began to run.  He was going down the trail now, running as a man runs only from his death, stumbling, cursing, rising and plunging on.