From stupor I had leaped to pain, and that tossed me into fever.  There were spaces darkened, mercifully shutting me in; there were others of light, where I burned and burned in my heated blood.  Sally, like the wraith she had become in my mind, passed in and out; Diane watched and helped in those hours when sight was clear.  But always the Ranger was with me.  Sometimes I seemed to feel his spirit grappling with mine, drawing me back from the verge.  Sometimes, in strange dreams, I saw him there between me and a dark, cold, sinister shape.

The fever passed, and with the first nourishing drink given me I seemed to find my tongue, to gain something.

“Hello, old man,” I whispered to Steele.

“Oh, Lord, Russ, to think you would double-cross me the way you did!”

That was his first speech to me after I had appeared to face round from the grave.  His good-humored reproach told me more than any other thing how far from his mind was thought of death for me.  Then he talked a little to me, cheerfully, with that directness and force characteristic of him always, showing me that the danger was past, and that I would now be rapidly on the mend.  I discovered that I cared little whether I was on the mend or not.  When I had passed the state of somber unrealities and then the hours of pain and then that first inspiring flush of renewed desire to live, an entirely different mood came over me.  But I kept it to myself.  I never even asked why, for three days, Sally never entered the room where I lay.  I associated this fact, however, with what I had imagined her shrinking from me, her intent and pale face, her singular manner when occasion made it necessary or unavoidable for her to be near me.

No difficulty was there in associating my change of mood with her absence.  I brooded.  Steele’s keen insight betrayed me to him, but all his power and his spirit availed nothing to cheer me.  I pretended to be cheerful; I drank and ate anything given me; I was patient and quiet.  But I ceased to mend.

Then, one day she came back, and Steele, who was watching me as she entered, quietly got up and without a word took Diane out of the room and left me alone with Sally.

“Russ, I’ve been sick myself—­in bed for three days,” she said.  “I’m better now.  I hope you are.  You look so pale.  Do you still think, brood about that fight?”

“Yes, I can’t forget.  I’m afraid it cost me more than life.”

Sally was somber, bloomy, thoughtful.  “You weren’t driven to kill George?” she asked.

“How do you mean?”

“By that awful instinct, that hankering to kill, you once told me these gunmen had.”

“No, I can swear it wasn’t that.  I didn’t want to kill him.  But he forced me.  As I had to go after these two men it was a foregone conclusion about Wright.  It was premeditated.  I have no excuse.”

“Hush—­Tell me, if you confronted them, drew on them, then you had a chance to kill my uncle?”