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Felice threw on such clothes as came to her hand and ran over to the office, returning with the doctor, half dressed and blinking in the lantern-light. He went in to the wounded man at once, and Lockwood, at the end of all strength, dropped into the hammock on the porch, stretching out his leg to ease the anguish of his broken foot. He leaned back and closed his eyes wearily, aware only of a hideous swirl of pain, of intolerable anxiety as to Chino’s wound, and, most of all, of a mere blur of confusion wherein the sights and sounds of the last few hours tore through his brain with the plunge of a wild galloping such as seemed to have been in his ears for years and years.

But as he lay thus he heard a step at his side. Then came the touch of Felice’s long brown hand upon his face. He sat up, opening his eyes.

“You aisk me-a,” she said, “eef I do onderstaind, eh? Yais, I onderstaind. You–” her voice was a whisper–“you shoot Chino, eh? I know. You do those thing’ for me-a. I am note angri, no-a. You ver’ sharp man, eh? All for love oaf Felice, eh? Now we be happi, maybe; now we git married soam day byne-by, eh? Ah, you one brave man, Signor Lockwude!”

She would have taken his hand, but Lockwood, the pain all forgot, the confusion all vanishing, was on his feet. It was as though a curtain that for months had hung between him and the blessed light of clear understanding had suddenly been rent in twain by her words. The woman stood revealed. All the baseness of her tribe, all the degraded savagery of a degenerate race, all the capabilities for wrong, for sordid treachery, that lay dormant in her, leaped to life at this unguarded moment, and in that new light, that now at last she had herself let in, stood pitilessly revealed, a loathsome thing, hateful as malevolence itself.

“What,” shouted Lockwood, “you think–think that I–that I could–oh-h, it’s monstrous–you—-” He could find no words to voice his loathing. Swiftly he turned away from her, the last spark of an evil love dying down forever in his breast.

It was a transformation, a thing as sudden as a miracle, as conclusive as a miracle, and with all a miracle’s sense of uplift and power. In a second of time the scales seemed to fall from the man’s eyes, fetters from his limbs; he saw, and he was free.

At the door Lockwood met the doctor:

“Well?”

“He’s all right; only a superficial wound. He’ll recover. But you–how about you? All right? Well, that is a good hearing. You’ve had a lucky escape, my boy.”

“I have had a lucky escape,” shouted Lockwood. “You don’t know just how lucky it was.”