You have need of prayers." He lifted his arm as he spoke;
but, as though she guessed his intention, she sprang out of his reach.
"No!" she said, in a voice concentrated with passion. "I am not going to
die like that. Stafford can shoot his wife down like a piece of blind
cattle if he thinks fit--but not you. I won't die by your hand, Steven. I
hate you too much."
"Hush!" he exclaimed. "The account between us is settled."
"Do you think I can begin to love you just because we are both about to
die?"
"You are my wife," he answered, grasping her by the wrists. "There are
things worse than death, and from them I shall shield you, whether you
will or not."
"Is it not enough that you have taken my life once?" she retorted.
"What do you mean? How dare you say that!"
"I say it because it is true. I have never lived--never. You killed me
years ago--all that was best in me. Save your soul from a second murder."
"If you live, do you know what may lie before you?"
"You talk of things 'worse than death.' What shame, what misery could be
worse than the years spent at your side?"
"You are mad, Margaret. I shall pay no attention to you. I must save you
against your will."
All through the hurried dialogue neither had spoken above a whisper. Even
in that moment they obeyed the habit of a lifetime, hiding hatred and
bitterness beneath a mask of apparent calm. Without a sound, but with a
frantic strength, Margaret wrenched herself free.
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