The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, July 8, 1906, Page 6

THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. 3 SAGEBRUSH = Last Sunday.) Jack feared t Parson From had “Pretty kill his wo- they said. had he safety damn would ki se. “What anyway?" nere and upsettin’ he'd got to goin’ women in, and rsed when 4 when in trouble. ng she tried to push him r footin' her own self,” brother rode slowly " he called Jerry. in among Jerry obeyed “What's this “The Parson ne murder of his 1lman. sked sharply. , fo sald Jerry respectfully. lieves such a string of non- ng savs he seed him.” said liar!” exploded Shed. 2" Nobody knew. had dis- rode hither and beats Hannah He finally gal- rection of hon 3 ack He, too, Shed yon, either. sttered “Did 5 e oy at the door. . ng?" she asked gl He went into the hall, daia What you e sitting-room. She = e behind him. “What did you he 3 <he persisted w Harman go™ be b as soon as he got back dia you hear, what atter 4 what they said. Tve told be abed. most tender to bed, Shed Wellman, you've heard. Sarah,” his i me what 1 hear?” ere was no escape from it. Shed 1o at her from the low chair self. “The 1 he had thrown L” he said slowly. those men said?” never done that husk in the Livin' “*Tain’t in she said she repeated. “Why vou say a don't believe such d. answer e done 1t?’ believe Mart Young us- he retufned promptly. “But . and g Parson went ive on’t prove nothin’,” she cried to 4o some mind ck look. * 'Tae'l‘( other folks beli brided ke and inte a if they've got any sens Where was Jack was head and front of every- Shed. “He sent Mat after t he dia™ either spoke for some minutes. At Shed broke the silence. He may off. They may not - Shed! They wouldn't — £ him? They do generaily, for Don't cry, ing ah! Dea't like t Don’t, don’t! He was sobbing himsel? like a child CHAPTER XXXIV. Katherine Appeals to Winslow., had to be told by the Sen- he next It could not be The story rorning. stpaned or ignored. Penrose did his gnified best with it, but it read, after very much like other stories of rrel and consequent trag- herine writhed as she read it, seclusion of her own room, be- of logs which crackled on she forced into her life one d gone outside of the riate setting, the adapted circle, ind hold one whose whole life sere—save the point Ah, but they this ever ith the rest of the world, ppropriate setting, the adapt- had had bowing acquaint- to it elsew where yuched touched! fault was that? Surely not of those who loved her and dy her needs. It was her ault, that she must seek flavors, unusual experi- cheapen herself to obtain t was the bitterness of it, fault willfu nge nd | but you wanted him, you would have dinary experience of every woman who loves? Why fancy that she had rights and privileges forbidden them? Call things by their right names, Katherine Sinclair. You wanted this man. His need of you was the plea that you used, him. Well? What have you had? What have you now? You have broken your | jar of precious ointment upon his head | —and he is a felon—accused of murder —in jall, awaiting sentence! “Mamma!” called a voice outside, “mamma!” | “Run aw Elsle; mamma’'s busy she replied. “I can’t,” piped the voice. “I must come in!" “Her mother's own child!” muttered Katherine, rising and flinging open the door. Elsie promptly entered. “Sailor Boy,” the knitted worsted doll, was thrust into her belt; Bettine, the bisque | to; at stifly erect in a go-cart pushedl before her, and Nancy, the big, floppy rag baby, survivor of countless com- plex adventures, lay limply over her shoulder. “I had to have them all” sighed Elsie, as she climbed into her mother's lap. I was so lonesome.” “Why aren’t you at lessons with Aunt Emmeline and Marguerite?” in- quired her mother. “There aren’t any,” replled Elsie promptly. “There aren't going to be any.at present; Aunt Emmeline’s nerves is o shook.” aken,” corrected her mother. ‘Aunt Emmeline sald shook.” “No, she didn’t; she never says such things.” “Shaken, then,’ said Elsie, accepting the amendment. “And Mary Flynn's out in the kitchen, crying, with Nora. Jerry cried, too, when he came in from the barn. I'saw him. Mother!” Elsie very seldom sald "mother.” It denoted unusual seriousness on her part. “Well,” sald Katharine. “Where is C. V.7" “How should I know, Elsie?” “Is he in jail?” “What a question!” exclaimed Katha- rine, pushing the child from her knee. Run and tell Nora to come to me at| once and then go and play with your | dolltes.” “I can’t play £0 mervous.” “Run along and do as I tell you.” Eisie reluetantly trundled the go- cart out of the room. Over her shoul- der the rag baby flopped disconsolately. Nora soon appeared, a swollen and distorted Nora, with agitated fingers plaiting the corner of her apron. “Elsie is not to go into the kitchen again,” commanded Katharine sternly, “or anywhere else where she can hear talk.” “But she was that bound and deter- mined—" pleaded Nora. “I don’t care if she is. If she won't mind you can come and tell me.” Still Nora lingered. “What is asked her mistress. “If ve plaze, ma'am, Mary Flynn's here and is wantin' a word Wwith you, | ma’'am, if you'll be so kind." | Nora's lips quivered. She threw her | apron over her head. Manners or no,| she could not hold in another minute. | “You may send her to me,” said Kath- | arine formally. Yora quickly vanished, and in her| place Mary Flynn appeared. She had worked for the Sinclairs when Katha- rine was a young girl, and her old name for her mistress’ daughter arose to her lips. “Oh, Miss Kitty, ma'am, what- ever are ye to do!” she cried, wringing her hands. | “I don’t see that we are called upon to do anything,” sald Katharine coldly. | “Oh, ma’'am, T thought—you an' him " fretted the child. “I'm it bein’ friends,” faltered Mary. ‘Folks | do be sayin'— “People are very free with their tongues,” said Katharine curtly. “Mr. happened to her| she had cheapened herself, she, | erine Sinclalr, with her pride, to satisfy a craving for something which © while was not hers. not hers? Was ever anything rs than that brief contact with nseen, mysterious workings life of But—how did it differ from the or- | together, now, clinging like sisters. tbut it looks like He ain’'t there.’ ‘Hould Vaughan has been an occasional caller | at the house.—Why don’t you go to my | brother? He is the one for you to see if it's a—petition.” ! “It ain’'t, ma’am. It ain’t, Miss Kitty. There ain’t twinty men in town would sign it, what ails ’em all, T dunno. Me own man, that'll do anything I ask him, won't stir a foot. An’ here's that poor felly, widout even a lawyer. They all says that.” i “Where's Mr. Barker?' inquired Katharine sharp “Oh, I see. He is district attorne “There’s no one else "cep Mr. Wins- low, an’ you an’ him bein’ friends, as I said , So that was what she meant. It was | Winslow and not Vaughan of whom she | spoke. | “I thought praps you'd ask Mr. | Winslow to defind him—the poor soul, the poor Soul'” Mary wiped her eyes with a corner of her shawl. “Oh,| ma'am,” she continued, “If you cud see | him this summer, when there warn't no | doctor to be had. Did ye hear that | I had him wid the last wan? Well, I did. My man says to me, says he, ‘Are | ye goin' to have that bye? ‘I am, says L ‘What else would I do? There ain't 2 woman around that knows how, an' Elliott is thryin’ to be State senator an’ Addison’s full all the toime. Sure, Bridget Donohoo had hlm an’ that Cor- nishwoman that lives over beyant, an’ says L TIl have him, if he'll come.’ An’ he coms, on the aidge of the avenin’ an’ stayed till break o’ day. An' there I was a-hollerin’ an’ thinkin’ I was | dead. An’ says he, “Hould on to the | Lord, Mary” An’ say I, T'm a-nouldin, | on to me, then,’ says he, an’ give me the two hands of him. D'ye mind his hands, ma’am- ' 34 Did she? Those haunting, helpful hands! The two women were sobbing “I'll do what I can, Mary,” faltersd Katharine, “I'll see Mr. Winslow. | Will you take a note to him for me?” “Thet I will!” away the tears. ye kncw how, darlin “I'll ask him to ‘call,” rine, seating herself at have him come right a “Do, darlin’,” urged Mary. As soon as she had dispatched the note, Katharine’'s heart misgave her. She ran to the window to call Mary back, but the agile little old-country- born Irfishwoman was already haliwzay down the hill; and, after all. what better was there to do? Thers was no time to send for an out-of-town law- yer. The trial was to take place al- most immediately, after the ner of Eureka justice. There were {ew law- yers in the State, any way, more able than BEugene Winslow. He could do it, if he would. If he would! Iow more than wise, and prudent, che must be! The minutes dragged like hours until he came, yet when she heard him mount the steps and ring the bell the time of her preparation had been all too short. She had removed the traces of tears and had changed the fashion of her hair and gown. He must find her no mourning dove. He entered hastily, his lip twitching. He had not been alone with her for months. She gave him her hand. “Do vou know why I sent for you?" she asked. “I can imagine,” he replied abruptly. “It is this affair of Vaughan's. You are naturally—disturbed.” “Yes, I am,” she said with a tran- quillity which surprised herself. “Sit here by the fire. It's a chilly morning.” ‘Winslow obeyed, holding out his hands to the blaze. “From the first I've taken an inter- est in Mr. Vaughan,” id Katharine in calm, well bred tonés—were they too calm, too well bred, she wondered. “He seemed so young and ingenuous. “He is your own age,” exploded Wins- low. “Is he?” she asked. “I should have said that he was much younger. I fancy he has not seen very much of the world. He is very boyish—don’t you think?” “Possibly,” sald Winslow. “Well, anyway,” sald Katharine with an access of energy, “of course we can’t let him—let them—do as they please with him after he has been one of us, a member of your club. I sent for you to consult with you to see what could be done.” She had really managed very well, she told herself. She had kept tremolo out of her volce, and across the room Winslow could not hear the beating of her heart. “Have you spoken to Arthur about this?" inquired Winslow searchingly. “N-no,” sald Katharine. ‘“Arthur— Arthur doesn’t like to talk about the things which he takes very much to heart. He is, of course—disturbed, like me. You know you can talk over your troubles more easily with some one outside the family—that is, not too far outside, an—an Intimate friend, like you." She was actually stumbling over her words. This would never do. “There is a strong feeling against ‘aughan,” sald Winslow, scowling. “And it is increasing.” Katharine's blood turned to ice in her veins. She did not dare to look at Winslow or to trust her voice. After a pause he continued. “It looks pretty black, you kpow, for a man to kill his wife and child. She was his wife, there's no doubt about that. - And she was evi- dently a provoking creature, but—mur- der is murder, you know. He'll prob- ably have to swing for it. In Katharine's clenched flsts, hidden among the folds of her gown, her nails wer tearing their way into her soft palms. It seemed to her that in‘another minute she would shriek out at the top of her voice. Yet when she spoke it was with the same deliberate calm. “We must prevent that, if possible,” she said, slowly. “There’s very little that can be done in a place like this,” returned Winslow. “In a more sophisticated, less direct community he would probably be got off on a quibble, but here it is did he or didn’t he, and swing him up to the first lamp-post! I've been expecting every day that they'd break into the jail and take him.” He nonchalantly flicked a bit of dust cried Mary, wiping “Put to hlm the way sald Katha- er desk. “I'll | from the sleave of his coat. Katherine’s eyes blazed under the drooping veil of their long lashes. But all she said was, “It would be a fairly clever piece of work to get him off.” Kugene Winslow started and gave her a quick glance. “It would, wouldn’t it!"” he exclalmed. “You've never had as big a criminal case as this, have you?” she inquired, smothering a yawn. “Excuse me; 1 didn’t sleep very well last night. Nor did any one else. Every one's nerves are upset. I didn’t know which way to turnh. o I sent for you,” she finished, brightly. “You did quite right,” he answered, with more of his old cordial manner than he had hitherto shown. “You were asking if I'd had as big a criminal care as this. , I haven’'t; they used to go to Barker, and since he's been District Attorney, there have been none.” “Of course, If the prisoner has no case- " suggested Katharine. “I wouldn’'t say that,”” he returned. “But it would take a smart lawyer to overcome the prejudices of these peo- ple. It might be done. I don't say it | couldn’t.” “I should think that sort of thing would be a temptation to a man, just to show that he could do it,” sald Kath- arine, reflectively. “It is, in a way,” sald Winslow. He scrutinized her sharply; was she play- ing a part? If she was, It was an adroit one. She was leaning back in her chair now, her bright hair thrown into rellef by Its dark, carved head- plece, her hands stretched out along its arms. He could not see her eyes. Katharine had such tell-tale eyes. He wished that he could seé them. But the heavy lids concealed them. She seemed to be studying the ruins of the log castle, glinting and glowing on the hearth. “You used to grow so excited over the ‘big cases,'” she pursued, dreamily. “I don’t care much, nowadays, that's a fact,” he responded, softening. “You should know why.” “How should I?” never told me.” “Not in words,” he said, quickly. *“Nor did you tell me in words that you had no further use for me. You did not need to.” “How very, very sensitive you are,” she said, gently. “Yes, I am,” he sald. tive, perhaps. She made no reply. “Was 1 too sensitive? he asked. ‘“I think—you were,” she answered, faintly. Silence again intervened. The turret of the log castle fell with a crash; a ;l:ddefl flame leaped up where it had en. she asked. “You “Too sensi- ) I “Do you want me to see what I can do_for this fellow?” Winslow asked. “I think it would be a fine thing to do,” she answered. “You would like to have me do it?” he persisted. “Yes, I should.”” At last she let him see her eyes. Clear, unflinching, stead- fast, they met his own. “That is enough,” he sald, rising. “I will send you word as soon as I have seen Vaughan.” She held out her hand. He raised it to his lips. “You will hear from me,” he said. “And—I thank you. I know how much this means from you.” She listened to his departing foot- steps and suddenly grew sick at heart. “That was done—like a woman,” she said to herself. “It could not have been done in any other way, and it may be the very worst thing that could happen!” CHAPTER XXXV. The Trial. ‘Within an hour after Winslow left the house a mote from him was put into Katharine’s hand: “I have seen Vaughan,” he wrote, “and have been accepted as his counsel.” For better or for worse, the thing was done. She could only awalt the consequerices. The trial had been set for the fol- lowing Tuesday. All day Monday peo- ple were pouring into town. They came from Ruby Hill and Simpson’s, from Alpha and Palisade, frorh Lewis, Galena and Battle Mountain. The ho- tels and the boarding-houses would not hold them all; they were housed In barns and stampmills, for the weath- er was bleak; they could not camp out-of-doors. Mary Henley had been prostrated by the news. Frank had decided to remain with her, but when Will Dower and Minnie, now Will's wife, had driven away and a squad of young miners had followed on horse- back, Mary dragged herself out of bed. “I'm going,” she said to Frank, “if it kills me.” They reached Eureka late at night, but the town was wide awake. Groups of men and women were gathered on the corners, talking in low tones. Now, a troop of horsemen galloped past, or a buggy or a buckboard rattled down the street, but there was no confusion, no disorder. A detachment of militia had been sent from Battle Mountain in apprehension of iregularities, but thus far their services had not been required. Frank found a room for himself and Mary in the house of a friend and they retired to it,. but not to sleep. Hour after hour they listened to the tramp, tramp of passersby, the murmur of volces, the clatter of horses’ hoofs. After a night which gave no rest and a breakfast which brought no appetite, Frank declared his intention of going to the jail. Mary would have gone with him, but Frank was resolute. ‘“No,” he said. “You have a hard day before you. Stay where you are, and keep still, if you can.” For Mary, in her distress, moved constantly -to and fro. ‘He came back shortly, saying the prisoner saw no one, by his own ex- pressed desire. “When 1Is the trial?" asked Mary. “ien o'clock. They're going alret and it's only half-past eight. courtroom won't begin to hold them all” “Can’t we gow nqw?" she asked. * “And wait two hours? 'lney're never on time. No, stay hers, while I see what I can do about getting a place where you can sit down.” He succeeded in obtalning a window in a house overlooking the corner on which the courthouse stood. Here she could s€e and hear as much as he cared to have her see and hear, and would not be jostled by the crowd. They took their positions early, but already the street below them was a mass of moving forms. Even to a first glance it was apparent that this was no hollday crowd. There were greet- ings between friends, excited talk, but, following question and answer, a great gloom settled down upon the vast com- pany. In many this had become apathy. They were blind and deaf to what went on around them. They were dumb. Others, less profoundly moved, betrayed extraordinary earnestness in gait dnd gesture and by pufing tremend%ua clouds of smoke from pipes or big cigars. Of these was a large red-faced man, who at last turned his restless glance toward the window containing the Henleys. “There’'s Judge Weaver,” exclaimed Mary. “He's seen us. He's coming up.” They were sitting in a small bedroom opening out of the hall, in company with a half dozen others, men and women. The Judge entered, out of breath from climbing the stairs. “Warm morning!” he explained, mopping his face with a bright-bor- dered handkerchief. “No? - Ain't it? Well, I've been hurrying some.” “Take this seat, Judge,” sald Frank, rising. “Yes, I insist. Here’s another for me. Why aren’t you inside?” The Judge glanced uneasily over his shoulder at the other occupants of the room before he answered. e ! couidn’t!” “There’s Barker,” he said, A minute later. “By Jupiter, this ought to sober him! They say he ain’t slept a wink since it happened. And there's Wins- low. I should rather had Barker, If it had been my case. Must be tough on Barker to have to prosecute. It's a bad business!” The Judge blew his nose loudly. Below, in the street, a man looked up and took off his hat. It was Shed Well- man. “He can't bring himself to go in, either,” said the Judge. “I just spoke with him. He chokes right up. There they come, now!" A murmur ran along the crowd under the window. “Stand back!” called s policeman. An avenue was mado. Through it two men advanced, Mat yle and the prisoner. Still in his suit of clerical black, tall and straignt, marched the man who was to be fried for the murder of he and crild. There should have been, by all the laws of human nature, only f2elings of Lor- ror for him. Instea., therc wus a pity. Here and theie a hiss o heard, a malediction. Jat these w- immediately hushed. The immense crowd which surged forward to the doors of the courthouse was leavened by those whom this man had helped and com- forted and ministered unto, and they believed in him. In spite of everything, they believed in him. As he disappeared within the huge doors which swung open to recelve him, the buzz of com- ment began. “He never done it! You can’t make me believe 't he did.” “P'r'aps he didn’t really do it, but they say he can will anybody to do as he wants 'em to.” “Damn nonsense! "bout?” “Winslow ain't no good: why dldn't he send off to Carson City or some- wheres for a lawyer?” “He didn’t send for Winslow; Wins- low offered.” “He don’t need Winslow. up and plead ..s own case. “You bet he can! D' you hear him when he spoke that night over Penrose and Bob Gordon? Warn't he great?” “Bet yer life! D' you hear him at Charley Davenport's funeral “Well, now ye're shoutin’!" “Liush up there; we can't hear what's goin’ on inside.” “Couldn’t, anyway.” ‘What you talkin’ He can git A Story of Early Life in the State of Nevada “Yes, we could. They’ll pass it along.” The restless sea became fixed and still. Every now and then a man leaned forward from the open window and told a man on the steps what was happen- ing within, and the man on the steps repeated it to the crowd in the stret. Nothing much had happened vyet. Reminiscence and anecdote revived again. “D' you hear how he knocked out Poole that time?” “Well, I should say. I was there.” “There ain’t nothin’ he can't do. I shouldn’t be s’prised if he cleared 'em {out in there and run for it.” “Keep still! They’'re doin’ somethin'!" “Ain’t nuther.” “They be too. Look at that man in the winder? What's he say, anyway?” hey're readin’ the indictment.” “Readin’ the indictment.” It was passed along the crowd, up to the windows, where the Henleys and Judge Weaver sat. Following it came the next plece of news. “They’'ve called the prisoner.” This, too, was passed along to the window. “What's he say?” asked one and an- other; here and there could be caught an answer. “Not gullty, of course.” “S’pose he’s a blam-jam idiot?” “S'pose he’'d put his neck in the noose?” “What's the man in the window say- ing now?” “There’'s something the matter?” “What's up?” “Somebody’s get hit, you say?" “Ask 'em, ask 'em, down there in front?” “What did he do like that for?” The man in the window had thrown up his arms with a sudden impetuous movement denoting amazement and dismay. The man below him repeated the ges- ‘ture, as he received the news. Gesture and news ran together through the crowd, in ever-widening circles, llke those formed in a pool when a pebble is dropped into it. “What? What?" they called out, on the farthest rim. Vhat did you say?” “Don’t believe it? Tain’t so.” v than man in the window “He lled.” “No, he didn't. Hear that! Hear that!” A dull murmur issued from the courtroom, a confused noise, the sound of many voices. “They ain't examining witnesses, now I tell you!” “What is It, what does he s: “The Judge is- ot “He ain’t—oh, my God!” Frank Henley leaned far over the window sill into the street. “Here, here! Look up here, somebody!"” he called, hoarsely. His tongue was thick in his mouth. But no one noticed him. Every eye was on the great door oppo- site, now swung open again. “They're comin’ out! Th out!” the murmur ran along the crowd. Judge Weaver thrust Frank aside and let out a roar like that of a mad bull. “What—the devil’'s—happened?” shouted. A miner on the edge of the crowd looked up, shifted his quid, “Prisoner’s pled guiity!” he answered. he CHAPTER XXXVI Brother and Sister. The houseful of women on Richmond Hill awaited anxfously the return of the men. Every one of them had gone to the courthouse, from Arthur to the young “greenhorn” who helped Jerry with the horses. “They'll probably take luncheon downtown,” said Miss Emmeline, as the noon hour approached. home much before night—why, they are, now!” The four men were walking slowly there front, Jerry and his assistant behind. Their heads were down, their eyes fixed on the ground. and Arthur and Ned entered into earn- est conversation. Jerry and his com- panion skulked around to the barn, as if afrald of being intercepted. “Why don't they come in and tell us?”’ fretted Mabel, voicing tharine’s mute misery. ‘“Arthur!” she called at length. He came, lagging. “Don’t you know we're erazy to hear about everything?” she complained. Still he hesitated, glancing at Kath- arine. The faces before him paled. “He isn’'t convicted!” cried Miss Em- meline. “Didn’'t Mr. Winslow win?” inquired Mabel, speaking for Katharine. “Winslow had nothing to do with it,” returned her husband. “Nothing to do with it, when he is counsel for the defense?” she pursued. “How does it happen that he had noth- ing to do with it? Arthur, do answer us. Can’t you speak?” “It was all Vaughan's own doing, Arthur replied with an effort. “He— pleaded guilty, without extenuation. He did not confess or explain. He would say nothing, except that he was guilty?” “And the sentence?” arine who now spoke. and looked at her. “The extreme penalty,” said Arthur, solemnly. “Come, Katharine, come with It was Kath- They all turned me,” He put his arm around her. But she pulled away. Her eyes were fixed in a stare. Her face was llke marble. “I'm going—to the jail!” she sald, in a strange, hard voice. “No, Katharine, come with me,” he repeated. He drew her into her own room and shut the door. “I tell you I am going to the jall,” she repeated. Her eves were feverishly bright. “I don’t care who sees me. I don’t care who knows.” “Yes, you do,” he answered, steadily. “You think just now that you don’t, but vou do. If I should let you go down there, into that mob hanging around the door of the jail, they would say, ‘There she comes, thé other woman! Yes, they would, Katharine. You could not bear e “I could bear anything,” she answered in a voice as steady as his own. “I don’t care what they say, if I can help—him.” “You wouldn't help him; yow would only make matters worse. He would have to bear that in addition to the rest, hearing you—insulted, perhaps. And his own case would grow so much the blacker, if people saw you there.” “But—Arthur—at a time like this— my place {s—there!” Her lips quivered piteously. “Your place is here,”” he answered, gravely, “under your brother’s roof, un- der your brother's protection. The appeal of his tenderness touched her for the moment. She droéped, but instantly rose again. “You make a coward of m she cried. “Why should 1 shleld myself? ‘Why should I be protected, when he is at the mercy of that horde! Arthur, Mabedel 55',bels'’k anopleaded uTdgQ, Arthur, if it were you, if it were Mabel—" Her own face looked back at her, molded into masculine lines, the same honest, gray eyes, the same lovable mouth, strengthened. “If it were I, if it were Mabel, I could not bear to have her come to me. I could not endure to see her suffer, knowing that I was the cause. Give knowing that I was the cause. Give “They won’t be | up the hill, Arthur and Ned Wilkins In | They halted outside,4This is his address.” =] Be a man He the man a chance, Kate! yourself! He has chosen this way. knows why. He could easily escaped.” She put her hands to her head mdiyo“ to, ‘less it sank into a chair—crouched there, lik> one hurt unto death. She did not weep, but great, dry sobs tore their wax through her, convulsing the delicate frame. Arthur watched her, his own heart ylelding compassionate response; but he did not for an instant relax the | grip of his will upon her until he krew | that hers had surrendered. Then he went out and left her there, alone. Mabel was waiting for him in the hall. She went up to him and put her soft, ro clinging arms about his neck. Oh, the human touch was good after that struggle! He kissed her agaln and again, gratefully. “Shall I go to her?” Mabel whispered. He shook his head. “Better leave her to herself, for a while.” “She won't do—anything—rash?” “Oh, no.” He knew the stuft of whicX | Katharine was made, he told himself. He did know a part, but not the whole, Katherine being a woman. CHAPTER XXXVIIL Prometheus Bound. In the great, gray structure, mas- sive as a fortress, where Eureka con- fined her criminals, Clement Vaughan was drinking deep of the bitterest of all bitter cups, the anguish he had caused his friends. He felt at first that | he could not endure it, could not bear their pain, but, hearing outside the door of his cell the sobbing of poor Minnie Dower, he said to the guard, | “Let her come in.” | Minnie rushed into the room and flung herself on her knees, seizing his hand and pressing it to her. Will fol- lowed, winking hard to keep back the tears. “I'll never believe it,” sobbed Minnle. “And if you did do it, you did perfectly right!” She was like a frantic child. He laid his free hand upon her head. She quieted under his touch. “Oh, Mr. Vaughan,” she murmured, looking up at him with streaming eyes. “You won’t let them—you'll run away! Promise me that you will! Oh, I can't bear it!" W1ll drew near and tried to exercise what feeble authority he possessed. “Come, come, Min,” he pleaded. “You mustn’t! Min!" Clement lifted her to her feet and | gently put her into Will's arms. “Take | her home,” he said. “And—comfort her.” They met the Henleys at the door. This wa® harder yet. In their blanched faces Clement read the sleep- less nights, the lack of food, the con- stant strain, how their hearts had bled. For their sakes he made a mighty ef- fort at seif-control. “You see—the | work was too big for me, Mary,” he | said, taking her hand. | Both men’ thought she was going to fall. But she recovered herself. ‘Wwas not too big for you, Clement,” she said heroically. have faced, as you have faced it, greater than any work you ever did. |1t is your work. It will preserve your | words, unforgotten.” There was the ring of prophecy in her voice, the gaze of the seer was in her eyes. Clement responded to them as he had always responded. His spirit answered the challenge of hers. “God bless you, Mary!"” he sald fer- vently. Frank glanced from one to the other in amazement. He had feared, dreaded, this interview, and here they were, these two, one to be hanged on the morrow, the other, an adopted sister, a companion for years—both calmer than | Frank himself! Clement turned to him. “There are some things I want you to attend to,” he said. “Let Mary go through my books and select what she would like to | |have. Send the rest back home; no | |one would care for them here. An old |friend of mine there will prize them. i wrote a name on a card and handed it to Frank. “You will like to have iy desk and chair, he pursued. “And there is a box {of music which I wish to go to Mrs. | Katharine Chisholm, on Richrhond HilL" Mary colored faintly. She heard some of the talk. | “That s all” said Clement. | poor man, as you know."” He gave a hand to each. They stood together, the three. “For the last time,” each was saying silently, “for the last time’ hours they had spent together, the joys they had shared, the troubles they had divided, flood. Mary was the first to break away. She put her arms around Clement's neck and drew him down to her, kissed |him on brow and lips and e the |sign of the cross. “I shall be with you.” she whispered, “all the way." She went out quickly. Frank lin- gered behind. “The boys haven't given up,” he said In a low voice. “They'll be | here some time tonight.”” Before Clem- | ent could reply he was gone. Judge Weaver came, then, and Lou Pugh, Jerry Flynn and Mike, with | Mary, weeping loudly. Shed Wellman came as far as the door, but retreated, “blubberin’ like a great calt,” he told Sarah when she reproached him for not seeing the pris- oner. Barker did not appear, and no one had seen Jack since the trial. But Dr. | Addison was Cornish preacher. Nearly every | sugested some way of escape. Long after they had gone the air seemed full of their offers of help, their cries of sympathy. Poor mourning Spirits of the Air and | of the Wave! Vaughan flung himself on his cot and tried in vain to shut out the sound of | their voices. Another Prometheus, he |lay there, chained to the rock of his punishment, preyed on by the vulture of his remorse. “I am a one CHAPTER XXXVIIL The Death Watch. “The boys” came that night, as Frank Henley said they would, twenty or more, clattering up to the door of the jail and demanding the jailer. He came out, blustering. “Give us your keys,” called the leader, dismounting. He had a hand kerchief cut into eyeslits over his face, but the shoulders and the swagger were unmistakably Dick Dale" The jailer swore mightily and gave up the keys. Mat Kyle appeared. “Look a-here, boys, this ain’t goin' to do,” he protested weakly. “Shut up,” returned the visitor good- humoredly. “You know what we want. It'll save time and jaw If you take me where I'm bound to go.” Mat led the way to Vaughan's cell, protesting loudly. The youngster strode after him, rapped deferentially at the door and then opened it. Vaughan received him with a smile. He had been looking down at the res- cuing party from the window. How like a fifteenth-century romance it all was! ‘We don’'t meed you, Mat.” 'said the visitor, closing the doo\ in the Sheriff's ;quleflyA “You know I can't have | | “Hurry up!” called a v | back? | swift, sharp stroke! “It | would have given no uncertain sourd! came back upen them In a| there, and Ricker, the| | | the torture than (o sit here and feel said to Vaughan. “They anywhere you want to S0. “f can’t go, Dick."” said the prisomer returned the “There ain’t a ts and wants out-of- “I don't see why not.” young man impatiently. soul in town but expec that damn town militia— e SRt N low. “I can't Vaughan. go, Dick,” 1 can't” said “You wouldn't have any re- spect for me if I did. I shouldn'!vl?lve any for myself. What, run away: “It ain’t running away,” said Dick. “It's being carried off. We're going to carry you off—you don’t understan There ain’t any time to lose. your last show. The thing will go through!™ “I know it,” sald Vaughan. % “You know it and—oh, my God! cried Dick. “Hurry up!™ below. Dick made a stride toward the prisoner. “Parson,” he said desper- ately, “you've got to go, there’s no use talkin". Vaughan drew back and faced him. “Dick, if you carry me away and pre- vent—justice, as God lives, I will come called the voice from A whistle blew shrilly in the yard, the signal of danger. “There they are, now!” exclaimed the would-be rescuer and dashed from the room. There were sounds ,indicating the approach of another party of horsemen—shouts, the popping of re- volvers, then Dick and his company galloped away, followed by the militia. Vaughan listened till the last hoof- beat was stilled, then resigned himself to the .Joneliness and the silence. It was pot a bright night, but there were stars, and the fires of the Richmond Mills lit up the space near and the overhanging sky. At intervals the flame leaped up, receiving the ore, and the country around the heavens were dyed red with the light of it. “Cast thy gold into the furnace” sang the inner, remote, hidden self of the watcher, the inaccessible self that sings and repeats phrases when the outer self may be agonizing or palsied. “Cast thy gold into the furnac: The relentless, devouring flame— how cruel it was! The sacrifice—how complete, how like his own! Ah, it was eruel! With all the crowding eloquence thrust back in him and sealed, with all the eager, vital- izing sympath; him frozen, to be hurled out, just as he was beginning to now what life meant to these men and women, just as he was learning thelr actual needs—how abnormal, un- natural, uncalled for it seemed! But—were words all, however elo- ?'u-enz’.' Wd“al sympathy all, however rm and true? W ? WIS el AR et E T The man, he knew, had failed. There was just one more chance given him to make good,” to recognize Justice, to surrender the due, to pay the penalty, Better that, better a thousand times the Silenced, the voice Suffered through, the life would leave a “To face what youi‘munln.: 1s | :lml-hl"h‘t'?lulid be an appeal for justice, | rig! ving, stronger tha | his lips could frame’ B And to her, the woman who had been heart of his heart, life of his life, In that brief moment of their mutual rec- ognition, to her also In no other way could he “make good,” in no other way could he insure to her tne preservation of what was pure and true and good in their love. To stay, to live, to yleld, 2s would be inevitable—Inevitable? With every pulse In him he responded to the thought of possessing her, of being possessed by her. But she would always feel that he had sinned, in thought, that day—that she had sinned because of lum. No, no! No, no! “Cast thy gold into the furnace'™ sang the inner self. “That will I.” answered the outer self. “The gold of my purpose, however mistaken, the gold of my service, however imperfect, the gold of my love for her, howaver alloyed, the gold of my desire for thee, O my God! 3 The flam: rose and sank, struggled and gave way, as the fire in the sireet had done on, the night of the service at Lou Pugh's. “‘Touch my lips with a live coal from off thine altar,’” he had prayed then. His lips! Now the penetrating, cleansing fire burned to his soul! Steps came and went, came and went again. Outside, in the corridor, Mat Kyle, longing to serve, fearing to in- and the|trude, in an agony of sympathy, ap- | proached and retreated. At last Vn\:};hw heard him and spoke. “Come in, Mat,” he called. “Come | 80od, kind friend!" . | _The sheriff entered. The experiences | of the last week had told on him. His round, stolld face had lengthened, { sharpened. He had been quickened by | what he had witnessed and felt. “I didn't know but you might—want somethin'!” he faltered. “What time is {t?" asked Vaughan. “After ten. ‘Twarn't but half-past eight when the boys was here. 'S there anything I can do? Anybody you wanter see? Ricker sald he'd come any mlnlute you said the word.” “I'd rather you to shrive me than priest, Mat,” Vaughan replied. - The idea caught his fancy. It would | not be hard to talk to this kind, simpl | hearted soul. He would like to leave a | message. | “Sit down,” he sald to the sherifr. “And let me say my last words to you." Mat sat down awkwardly, his f: hands on his knees. His heart w: thumping away, like a steel hammer, under his gaudy walstcoat; there was a lump in his throat wu.ch he could not swallow. He would rather be put to like this, but if ‘twould ease the Parson any to talk, by beeswax, he would stand it! “They may¥ ask you—afterward what I said,” pursued Vaughan. T won't burden your memory with a lot of words. It isn't necessary. I'll leave only a short message to those who will care enough to ask you what I said. Tell them this: ‘It isn't What a man says or does, but what he thinks! Tell th;;:. ‘Iwhklld& Ttn thinks!" ™ t looked wise. He couldn’t life of him see what thinking ::u:d"l‘; do with committing murder and being hanged for it, but perhaps the Parson would explain. To Mat, thinking meant sitting down and getting all snarled up, as he was now. What did it amount to anyway? But, there, if it eased the Parson any to talk, let him talk!’ “It is the secret thought that kills,™ pursued Vaughan. “I hated—therefore I was a murderer! hx t winked h_;;a. Just what did the TSon mean. erefore—w mean by that? e, “Hold om, Parson" he e leaning forward, his face veryl crl;‘l.m:c' otre.;n ll;;lr;ened by his effort to under- stan. “Didn’t yer- ) i yer—didn't yer push her “No,” sald Vaughan sadly, “she ju; ed. She sald it was my fault ang ::; she hoped I'd be hanged for it. Where are you going?” Mat was on his feet. “Say that again,” he exclaimed excitedly. didn’t push her over?” e “You'll have to excuse me. I've got somethin’ to do!™ face. “The boys are a-waiting for you,” he : (Concluded Next Sunday.)