He approached the table and turned up the lamp which he had left burning dimly.  By its pale light David could see the great head lying on the pillow, the chin elevated, the mouth partially open, the breast heaving with the painful efforts to catch a few last fluttering inspirations.

Nestling close to the ashen face and licking the cheek now and then with his little red tongue, was the terrier.

Mantel’s footfall, quiet as it was, disturbed the sleeper, who moved, turned his head toward the sound and asked in a husky and but half-audible voice, “Who is there?”

“It is I. How are you now?  A little better?” said Mantel, laying his soft, cool hand upon the broad forehead, wet already with the death-damp.

“I am getting weaker.  It won’t—­last—­long,” he answered painfully.

“Do you think so?”

“I know it.”

“Are you satisfied?”

“It can’t—­be—­helped.”

“No, it can’t be helped.  The doctor has told me you cannot live through the night.”

“The—­sooner—­the—­better!”

“I do not want to bother you, but I cannot bear to have you die without talking to you again about your future; I must try once more to persuade you not to die without sending some kind word to the people who have wronged you.”

The expression of the white face underwent a hideous transformation.

“If you do not feel like talking to me about a matter so sacred and personal, would you not like to have me send for some minister or priest?”

The head moved slowly back and forth in a firm negation.

“In every age, and among all men, it has seemed fitting that those who were about to die should make some preparation to meet their God.  Have you no desire to do this?”

A fierce light shone upon the emaciated countenance and the thin lips slowly articulated these words:  “I—­myself—­will—­settle—­with—­God!  He—­will—­have—­to—­
account—­to—­me—­for—­all—­he—­has—­made—­me—­suffer!”

The listener at the door leaned against the wall for support.

“Is there absolutely no word of pardon or of kindness which you wish to send to those who have injured you, as a sort of legacy from the grave?”

“None!” he whispered fiercely.

“Suppose that your enemy should come to see you.  Suppose that a great change had come over him; that he, too, had suffered deeply; that your wife had discovered his treachery and left him; that he had bitterly repented; that he had made such atonement as he could for his sin; that it was he who has been caring for you in these last hours, could you not pardon him?”

These words produced an extraordinary effect on the dying man.  For the first time he identified his enemy with his friend, and as the discovery dawned upon his mind a convulsion seized and shook his frame.  He slowly and painfully struggled to a sitting posture, lifted his right hand above his head and said in tones that rang with the raucous power of by-gone days: