He rode straight south, seeking no trail, but guiding their course by
the stars, his right hand firmly grasping the pony's bit, and
continually urging his own mount to faster pace. The one thought
dominating his mind was the urgent necessity for haste--a savage
determination to intercept that early train eastward. Beyond this
single idea his brain seemed in hopeless turmoil, seemed failing him.
Any delay meant danger, discovery, the placing of her very life in
peril. He could grasp that; he could plan, guide, act in every way the
part of a man under its inspiration, but all else appeared chaos. The
future?--there was no future; there never again could be. The chasm of
a thousand years had suddenly yawned between him and this woman. It
made his head reel merely to gaze down into those awful depths. It
could not be bridged; no sacrifice, no compensation might ever undo
that fatal death-shot. He did not blame her, he did not question her
justification, but he understood--together they faced the inevitable.
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