Beth Norvell

Winston sat gazing at the delicate contour of her face, partially

turned away from him, the long, silken lashes shading eyes lowered upon

the floor. A single gleam of the westering sun rested in golden beauty

across her dark hair, stirred by the slight breeze blowing through the

open window. In the silence he could hear his heart beat, and

distinguish the faint sound of her breathing. She was the first to

speak, yet without moving her head.

"Is it true that you are now under arrest?" she questioned, her voice

scarcely audible.

"Technically yes, although, as you may perceive, the sheriff is

powerless to prevent an escape if I desired to attempt one."

"Is it because of that--that charge he made?"

He arose to his feet in brave attempt at self-control.

"Oh, no, certainly not! I think that was merely a threat, a cowardly

threat, utterly without provocation, without purpose, unless he sought

in that way to work you a serious injury. The real charge against me

is murder. It appears that the man I fought with in the mine later

died from his injuries."

She turned both face and body toward him, her eyes filled with agony.

"The man died? Will it be possible for you to prove yourself innocent?"

"It may be possible, but it does not appear easy. I hope to show that

all I did was in self-defence. I did not strike the man a deadly blow;

in the struggle he fell and was injured on the sharp rocks. In every

sense his death was unintentional, yet there is nothing to sustain me

but my own testimony. But I shall not flee from the issue. If I have

taken human life I will abide the judgment. God knows I never dreamed

of killing the man; never once supposed him seriously injured. You, at

least, believe this?"

"I believe all you tell me."

The man's grasp on the casing of the window tightened, his eyes upon

the mass of black hair.

"Strangely enough," he continued, "this whole affair has gone wrong

from the start; nothing has turned out in the natural way. Criminals

have been made into officers of the law, and honest men changed into

outlaws. Now it seems impossible to conjecture how the adventure will

terminate."

She sat looking up at him, scarcely seeing his face, her hands clasped

in her lap.

"'All the world 's a stage, and all the men and women merely players,'"

she said, quoting the familiar words as if in a dream. "We are such

puppets in the great play! How strange it all is! How dangerously

close real life is, always skirting the precipice of tragedy! Plans

fail, lines tangle, and lives are changed forever by events seemingly

insignificant. To-morrow is always mystery. I wonder, is it not a dim

consciousness of this that renders the stage so attractive to the

multitude? Even its burlesques, its lurid melodramas, are never

utterly beyond the possible. Everywhere are found stranger stories

than any romancer can invent; and yet we sometimes term our lives

commonplace." She leaned back against the wall, a sob coming into her

voice. "What--what is going to be the end of this--for me?"