“What is that you are saying, old friend?” returned Ralph.  “Death comes to every one.  The black camel kneels at the gate of all.  If it came to some here and some there, then it would be awful indeed.”

“But to die before our time is terrible, it is,” said Sim.

“Before our time—­what time?” said Ralph.  “To-day or to-morrow—­who shall say which is your time or mine?”

“Aye, but to die like this!” said Sim, and rocked himself in his seat.

“And is it not true that a short death is the sovereign good hap of life?”

“The shame of it—­the shame of it,” Sim muttered.

“That touches us not at all,” said Ralph.  “Only the guilty can feel the shame of a shameful death.  No, no; death is kindest.  And yet, and yet, old friend, I half repent me of my resolve.  The fatal warrant, which has been the principal witness against us, was preserved in the sole hope that one day it might serve you in good stead.  For your sake, and yours only, would to God that I might say where I came by it and when!”

“No, no, no,” cried Sim, with a sudden access of resolution; “I am the guilty man after all, and it is but justice that I should die.  But that you should die also—­you that are as innocent as the babe unborn—­God will never look down on it, I tell you.  God will never witness it; never, never!”

At that moment the organ of the chapel of the castle burst on the ear.  It was playing for afternoon service.  Then the voices of the choir came, droned and drowsed and blurred, across the green and through the thick walls of the tower.  The sacred harmonies swept up to them in their cell as the intoned Litanies sweep down a long cathedral aisle to those who stand under the sky at its porch.  Deep, rich, full, pure, and solemn.  The voice of peace, peace, and rest.

The two men shut their eyes and listened.

In that world on which they had turned their backs men were struggling, men were fighting, men’s souls were being torn by passion.  In that world to which their faces were set no haunting, hurrying footsteps ever fell; no soul was yet vexed by fierce fire, no dross of budded hope was yet laid low.  All was rest and peace.

The gaoler knocked.  A visitor was here to see Ralph.  He had secured the permission of the under sheriff to see him for half an hour alone.

Sim rose, and prepared to follow the gaoler.

“No,” said Ralph, motioning him back; “it is too late for secrets to come between you and me.  He must stay,” he added, turning to the gaoler.

A moment later Robbie Anderson entered.  He was deeply moved.

“I was ill and insensible at the time of the trial,” he said.

Then he told the long story of his fruitless quest.

“My evidence might have saved you,” he said.  “Is it yet too late?”

“Yes, it is too late,” said Ralph.

“I think I could say where the warrant came from.”