Blood spurted between his
fingers, soaking his wet sleeve; and Sylvie, crying aloud, wrapped
him in trembling, protective arms.
"I'm not much hurt," he said half dazedly. "It--it was an accident.
He didn't mean it. I was looking at him. The gun went off. He didn't
shoot at me. . . . _Hugh_!"
The man was staring straight ahead of him, and now he drew his hand
across his eyes, the fingers crooked as though they tore a veil.
"Now," he said, "I do see myself just as I am. Yes, I did shoot at
you. Yes, I think I meant to kill you. I must have meant to kill you.
That's the truth. For the second time I'm a murderer. Yet now, as
God lives, even if I am down in the dust, I'll lay hold of my stars.
I'm going to walk out of your lives so that they can shape themselves
to their own good ends. Sylvie can shape yours with you, Pete." He
hesitated a moment. "If a coward, a murderer, can say 'God bless you,'
take that blessing!"
He picked up his gun and shuffled across the floor, flinching aside
from Bella as though he could bear no further touch or word, and went
out of the door, letting in the brightness of the sunrise.
Pete had sunk into a chair, faint from the shock and weakness of his
wound; and Sylvie bent over him.
Pages:
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131