LITMIR.BIZ

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chill to the heart of the fearful bully. We are to conceive that Craven tasted the bitterness of death, that in the cold passionless face opposite to him he read his doom, and that in the horrible agony of terror that sweated him he forgot the traditions of his class and the training of a lifetime. He stumbled, and when Sir Robert held his hand, waiting point groundward with splendid carelessness for his opponent to rise, Craven flung himself forward on his knees and thrust low at him. The blade went home through the lower vitals.

      Volney stood looking at him a moment with a face of infinite contempt, than sank back into the arms of Beauclerc.

      While the surgeon was examining the wound Craven stole forward guiltily to the outskirts of the little group which surrounded the wounded man. His horror-stricken eyes peered out of a face like chalk. The man’s own second had just turned his back on him, and he was already realizing that the foul stroke had written on his forehead the brand of Cain, had made him an outcast and a pariah on the face of the earth.

      The eyes of Volney and his murderer met, those of the dying man full of scorn. Craven’s glance fell before that steady look. He muttered a hope that the wound was but slight; then, in torture, burst out: “’Twas a slip. By Heaven, it was, Volney! I would to God it were undone.”

      “‘To every coward safety, and afterward his evil hour,’” quoted Volney with cold disdain.

      The murderer turned away with a sobbing oath, mounted his horse and rode for the coast to begin his lifetime of exile, penury, and execration.

      “Do I get my passport?” asked Sir Robert of the surgeon.

      The latter began to talk a jargon of medical terms, but Volney cut him short.

      “Enough! I understand,” he said quietly. “Get me to my rooms and send at once for the Prince of Wales. Beauclerc, may I trouble you to call on Cumberland and get from him an order to bring young Montagu to my place from the prison? And will you send my man Watkins for a lawyer? Oh, and one more commission—a messenger to beg of Miss Macleod her attendance. In case she demurs, make it plain to her that I am a dying man. Faith, Topham, you’ll be glad I do not die often. I fear I am an unconscionable nuisance at it.”

      Topham Beauclerc drove straight to the residence of the Duke of Cumberland. He found the Duke at home, explained the situation in a few words, and presently the pair of them called on the Duke of Newcastle and secured his counter-signature for taking me temporarily from the New Prison. Dusk was falling when Beauclerc and the prison guards led me to Volney’s bedroom. At the first glance I saw plainly that he was not long for this world. He lay propped on an attendant’s arm, the beautiful eyes serene, an inscrutable smile on the colourless lips. Beside him sat Aileen, her hand in his, and on the other side of the bed the Duke of Cumberland and Malcolm. When he saw me his eyes brightened.

      “On time, Kenneth. Thanks for coming.”

      Beauclerc had told me the story, and I went forward with misty eyes. He looked at me smiling.

      “On my soul I believe you are sorry, Montagu. Yes, I have my quietus. The fellow struck foul. My own fault! I always knew him for a scoundrel. I had him beaten; but ’tis better so perhaps. After all I shall cross the river before you, Kenneth.” Then abruptly to an attendant who entered the room, “Has the Prince come yet?”

      “But this moment, sir.”

      The Prince of Wales entered the room, and Volney gave him his old winsome smile.

      “Hard hit, your Highness!”

      “I trust it is not so bad as they say, Robert.”

      “Bad or good, as one looks at it, but this night I go wandering into the great unknown. Enough of this. I sent for you, Fritz, to ask my last favour.”

      The face of the stolid Dutchman was all broken with emotion.

      “’Tis yours, Robert, if the thing is mine to grant.”

      “I want Montagu spared. You must get his pardon before I die, else I shall not pass easy in mind. This one wrong I must right before the end. ’Twas I drove him to rebellion. You will get him pardoned and see to it that his estates are not confiscated?”

      “I promise to do my best. It shall be attended to.”

      “To-day?”

      “This very hour if it can be arranged.”

      “And you, Cumberland, will do your share.”

      The Duke nodded, frowning to hide his emotion.

      Volney fell back on the pillows. “Good! Where is the priest?”

      A vicar of the Church of England came forward to offer the usual ministrations to the dying. Volney listened for a minute or two with closed eyes, then interrupted gently.

      “Thank you. That will suffice. I’ll never insult my Maker by fawning for pardon in the fag hour of a misspent life.”

      “The mercy of God is without limits——”

      “I hope so. That I shall know better than you within the space of four-and-twenty hours. I’m afraid you mistake your mission here. You came to marry Antony, not to bury Cæsar.” Then, turning to me, he said with a flare of his old reckless wit: “Any time this six weeks you’ve been qualifying for the noose. If you’re quite ready we’ll have the obsequies to-night.”

      He put Aileen’s hand in mine. The vicar married us, the Prince of Wales giving away the bride. Aileen’s pale face was shot with a faint flush, a splash of pink in either alabaster cheek. When the priest had made us man and wife she, who had just married me, leaned forward impulsively and kissed our former enemy on the forehead. The humorous gleam came back to his dulling eyes.

      “Only one, Montagu. I dare say you can spare that. The rest are for a better man. Don’t cry, Aileen. ’Fore Heaven, ’tis a good quittance for you.”

      He looked at the soft warmth and glow of her, now quickened to throbbing life, drew a long breath, then smiled and sighed again, her lover even to the last.

      A long silence fell, which Sir Robert broke by saying with a smile, “In case Selwyn calls show him up. If I am still alive I’ll want to see him, and if I’m dead he’ll want to see me. ’Twill interest him vastly.”

      Once more only he spoke. “The shadow falls,” he said to Aileen, and presently dozed fitfully; so slipped gradually into the deeper sleep from which there is no awakening this side of the tomb. Thus he passed quietly to the great beyond, an unfearing cynic to the last hour of his life.

      The Afterword

       Table of Contents

      My pardon came next day, duly signed and sealed, with the customary rider to it that I must renounce the Stuarts, and swear allegiance to King George. I am no hero of romance, but a plain Englishman, a prosaic lover of roast beef and old claret, of farming and of fox-hunting. Our cause was dead, and might as well be buried. Not to make long of the matter, I took the oath without scruple. To my pardon there was one other proviso: that I must live on my estate until further notice. If at any time I were found ten miles from Montagu Grange, the pardon was to be void.

      Aileen and I moved to our appointed home at once. It may be believed that our hearts were full of the most tender joy and love, for I had been snatched from the jaws of death into the very sunshine of life. We had but one cloud to mar the bright light—the death of many a dear friend, and most of all, of that friendly enemy who had given his life for her good name. Moralists point out to me that he was a great sinner. I care not if it be so. Let others condemn him; I do not. Rather I cherish the memory of a gallant, faultful gentleman whose life found wrong expression. There be some to whom are given inheritance of evil nature. Then how dare we, who know not the measure of their temptation, make ourselves judges of their sin?

      At the Grange we found awaiting us an unexpected visitor,

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