James Rutlidge’s foot slipped on the rocky floor; but, with a desperate effort, he regained his momentary loss.  Aaron King—­worn by his days of anxiety, by his sleepless nights and by the long hours of toil over the mountains, without sufficient food or rest—­felt his strength going.  Slowly, the weight and endurance of the heavier man told against him.  James Rutlidge felt it, and his eyes were beginning to blaze with savage triumph.

They were breathing, now, with hoarse, sobbing gasps, that told of the nearness of the finish.  Slowly, Aaron King weakened.  Rutlidge, spurred to increase his effort, and exerting every ounce of his strength, was bearing the other downward and back.

At that instant, the convict and Sibyl Andres reached the cliff.  With a cry of horror, the girl stood as though turned to stone.

Motionless, without a word, the convict watched the struggling men.

With a sob, the girl stretched forth her hands.  In a low voice she called, “Aaron!  Aaron!  Aaron!”

The two men on the ledge heard nothing—­saw nothing.

Sibyl spoke again, almost in a whisper, but her companion heard.  “Mr.
Marston, Mr. Marston, it is Aaron King.  I—­I love him—­I—­love him.”

Without taking his eyes from the struggling men, the convict answered, “Pray, girl; pray, pray for me.”  As he spoke, he steadily raised his rifle to his shoulder.

Aaron King went down upon one knee.  Rutlidge his legs braced, his body inclined toward the edge of the precipice, was gathering his strength for the last triumphant effort.

The convict, looking along his steady rifle barrel, was saying again, “Pray, pray for me, girl.”  As the words left his lips, his finger pressed the trigger, and the quiet of the hills was broken by the sharp crack of the rifle.

James Rutlidge’s hold upon the artist slipped.  For a fraction of a second, his form half straightened and he stood nearly erect; then, as a weed cut by the sharp scythe of a mower falls, he fell; his body whirling downward toward the trees and rocks below.  The sound of the crashing branches mingled with the reverberating report of the shot.  On the ledge, Aaron King lay still.

The convict dropped his rifle and ran forward.  Lifting the unconscious man in his arms, he carried him a little way down the mountain, toward the cabin; where he laid him gently on the ground.  To Sibyl, who hung over the artist in an agony of loving fear, he said hurriedly, “He’ll be all right, presently, Miss Andres.  I’ll fetch his coat and hat.”

Running back to the ledge, he caught up the dead man’s rifle, coat, and hat, and threw them over the precipice, as he swiftly crossed for the artist’s things.  Recovering his own rifle, he ran back to the girl.

“Listen, Miss Andres,” said the convict, speaking quickly.  “Mr. King will be all right in a few minutes.  That rifle-shot will likely bring his friends; if not, you are safe, now, anyway.  I dare not take chances.  Good-by.”