"I will kill you!" said Jean again.
Dixon's arms fell limply to his side. His eyes bulged from their
sockets, his mouth was agape, but Jean did not see. His face was
buried on the other's shoulder, the whole life of him in the grip. He
would not have raised his head for a full minute longer had there not
come a sudden interruption--the terrified voice of Melisse, the
frantic tearing of her hands at his hands.
"He is dead!" she shrieked. "You have killed him, Jean!"
He loosed his fingers and sat up. Melisse staggered back, clutching
with her hands at her breast, her face as white as the snow.
"You have killed him!"
Jean looked into Dixon's eyes.
"He is not dead," he said, rising and going to her side. "Come, ma
chere, run home to Iowaka. I will not kill him." Her slender form
shook with agonized sobs as he led her to the turn in the trail. "Run
home to Iowaka," he repeated gently. "I will not kill him, Melisse."
He went back to Dixon and rubbed snow over the man's face.
"Mon Dieu, but it was near to it!" he exclaimed, as there came a
flicker of life into the eyes. "A little more, and he would have been
with the missioner!"
He dragged the Englishman to the side of the trail, and set his back
to a tree. When he saw that fallen foeman's breath was coming more
strongly, he followed slowly after Melisse.
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