"Leave me to my own fate!" she demanded, in the same passionate undertone.
"You have ceased to be responsible for me."
He made one last effort to hold her. In the same instant the firing ceased
altogether. There followed the roar and crash of bursting timber, the
pattering of naked feet, the fanatic yells drawing every second nearer.
"Margaret!" he cried wildly, holding out his revolver in the darkness.
"If not at my hands, then at your own. Save yourself--"
"I shall save myself, have no fear!" she answered, with a bitter,
terrible laugh.
From the couch Christine Stafford's voice rose peacefully:
"Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit!"
Another voice answered, "Amen!" There was the report of a revolver and a
sudden, startling stillness. It lasted only a breathing space. Furious
shoulders hurled themselves against the frail, weakly barred door. It
cracked, bulged inward, with a bursting, tearing sound, yielded. The
moonlight flooded into the little room, throwing up into bold relief the
three upright figures and the little heap that knelt motionless by the
couch.
The crowd of savage faces hesitated, faltering an instant before the
sahibs who yesterday had been their lords and masters. Then the sahibs
fired. It was all that was needed. The room filled. There was one stifled
groan--no more than that. No cry for mercy, no whining.
Little by little the room emptied again.
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