"Becky!" At the broken cry, Becky's eyes flashed wide and fire broke
through the haze that had gathered in them.
"I want ye ter fergive me, Becky."
The eyes burned steadily for a long time. For two days she had not
spoken, but her voice came now, as though from the grave.
"You!" she said, and, again, with torturing scorn, "You!" And then she
smiled, for she knew why her enemy was there, and her hour of triumph
was come. The girl moved swiftly to the window--she could see the
wounded Marcum slowly crossing the street, pistol in hand.
"What'd I ever do to you?"
"Nothin', Becky, nothin'."
Becky laughed harshly. "You can tell the truth--can't ye--to a dyin'
woman?"
"Fergive me, Becky!"
A scowling face, tortured with pain, was thrust into the window.
"Sh-h!" whispered the girl, imperiously, and the man lifted his heavy
eyes, dropped one elbow on the window-sill and waited.
"You tuk Jim from me!"
The widow covered her face with her hands, and the Marcum at the
window--brother to Jim, who was dead--lowered at her, listening keenly.
"An' you got him by lyin' 'bout me. You tuk him by lyin' 'bout
me--didn't ye? Didn't ye?" she repeated, fiercely, and her voice would
have wrung the truth from a stone.
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