The bodies of Metz and Purdy are still being carried by the miners.  Now a priest who has accompanied the funeral from the time it crossed the bridge, is escorted through the crowd to the edge of the grave.

“Will you conduct the burial service over these two bodies?” Trueman asks of the man of God.

“Neither was prepared for death,” protests the priest.

“That is all the more reason for your offering up prayers for their souls.”

“Were they of my faith?” inquires the priest.

“They are dead now and faith has nothing to do with the matter.  We want you as a Christian to pronounce the words of the burial service over these bodies.”

“One of these men was a murderer,” further protests the priest.

“Which one?” demands Trueman.

“They say Mete killed German Purdy,” is the response.

“And a hundred men within call of us will tell you that Gorman Purdy killed fifty men in his time,” retorts a bystander.  These words, so bitter yet so just, would be cruel indeed for the ears of Ethel Purdy; but she has lapsed into semi-consciousness.  Harvey still holds her in his arms; he seems oblivious of the burden he has borne for more than a mile and a half.

“I cannot go through the forms of the church over the grave of these men,” the priest declares emphatically.  “It would be a sacrilege.  But I will say a prayer for their departed spirits.”

On the tombs that range in a wide semi-circle from the entrance, the crowd has taken points of vantage.  Those who cannot force their way to the inner circle about the grave, stand aloof, yet where they can observe the simple, impressive ceremonies.

In a thin, querulous voice the prayer is asked.  It is such an invocation as might have been uttered over the remains of two gladiators.  Blood is upon the head of each; the prayer craves forgiveness.  As the priest concludes, the bodies are wrapped in the shawls and lowered into the grave.

While the earth is being replaced, Trueman speaks to Ethel.  She partially revives, and seems to understand that her father’s body is being interred.  When this thought has been fully grasped she realizes that she is being supported in Harvey’s arms.  She makes an instinctive effort to escape from his clasp; an instant later she looks up into his face and asks:  “You will not leave me?” She pauses.  “Give my millions to the people.  I hate the thought of money.  Only tell me that you will not desert me!”

“No, my darling,” comes the whisper, “I shall never be parted from you again, so long as we live.  The priest could not perform the burial service; he can, however, make us man and wife.”

As he speaks, Harvey places Ethel gently on her feet.

Standing side by side at the grave which holds victor and vanquished in the great war for the recovery of the rights of man, Harvey Trueman and Ethel Purdy present a strange contrast.  He is the acknowledged leader of the plain people; she is the richest woman in America.  For him, every one within reach of his voice has the deepest love and admiration; for the hapless woman beside him, there is not a man or woman who would turn a hand to keep her from starving.