It lay partly on one side, with the forearm beneath it, the cheek on the floor.  The eyes were wide open; the stare was not an agreeable thing to encounter.  The lower jaw had fallen; a little pool of saliva had collected beneath the mouth.  An overthrown table, a partly burned candle, a chair and some paper with writing on it were all else that the room contained.  The men looked at the body, touching the face in turn.  The boy gravely stood at the head, assuming a look of ownership.  It was the proudest moment of his life.  One of the men said to him, “You’re a good ’un”—­a remark which was received by the two others with nods of acquiescence.  It was Scepticism apologizing to Truth.  Then one of the men took from the floor the sheet of manuscript and stepped to the window, for already the evening shadows were glooming the forest.  The song of the whip-poor-will was heard in the distance and a monstrous beetle sped by the window on roaring wings and thundered away out of hearing.  The man read: 

THE MANUSCRIPT

“Before committing the act which, rightly or wrongly, I have resolved on and appearing before my Maker for judgment, I, James R. Colston, deem it my duty as a journalist to make a statement to the public.  My name is, I believe, tolerably well known to the people as a writer of tragic tales, but the somberest imagination never conceived anything so tragic as my own life and history.  Not in incident:  my life has been destitute of adventure and action.  But my mental career has been lurid with experiences such as kill and damn.  I shall not recount them here—­some of them are written and ready for publication elsewhere.  The object of these lines is to explain to whomsoever may be interested that my death is voluntary—­my own act.  I shall die at twelve o’clock on the night of the 15th of July—­a significant anniversary to me, for it was on that day, and at that hour, that my friend in time and eternity, Charles Breede, performed his vow to me by the same act which his fidelity to our pledge now entails upon me.  He took his life in his little house in the Copeton woods.  There was the customary verdict of ‘temporary insanity.’  Had I testified at that inquest—­had I told all I knew, they would have called me mad!”

Here followed an evidently long passage which the man reading read to himself only.  The rest he read aloud.

“I have still a week of life in which to arrange my worldly affairs and prepare for the great change.  It is enough, for I have but few affairs and it is now four years since death became an imperative obligation.

  “I shall bear this writing on my body; the finder will please hand it
  to the coroner.

  “JAMES R. COLSTON.