Relentlessly he
bore his assailant to the ground and raised his knife. The lightning
flared brilliantly again. With a great, choking cry of unutterable
horror, Carl fell back and flung his knife away.
"Oh, God!" he cried, shaking. "Philip!" He flung himself face
downward on the ground in an agony of abasement.
With a roar of wind and rain the hurricane beat gustily upon the
wigwams. Neither man seemed aware of it. Philip, his face white, had
risen. Now he stood, tall, rigid, towering above the man upon the
ground, who lay motionless save for the shuddering gusts of
self-revulsion which swept his tortured body.
It was Philip at last who spoke. Bending he touched the other's
shoulder.
"Come," he said. "Diane must not know."
"No," said Carl dully. "No--she must not know. I--I am not myself,
Philip, as God is my witness--" He choked, unable to voice the horror
in his heart. A man may not raise the knife of death to his one friend
and speak of it with comfort.
Rising, Carl stumbled blindly in the wake of the tall figure striding
on ahead. They halted at last at a wigwam on the fringe of the camp.
Philip lighted a lantern, his white face fixed and expressionless as
stone.
"You were going to kill her!" he said abruptly.
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