Griffith Jenkins took from under his pillow a bunch of keys, and fumbling amongst them, gave one to Rowland, with which he opened the chest, and procured the necessary writing apparatus.

‘Give you me my keys—­quick, quick!’ cried the old man, again hiding them somewhere in his bed.’

At his dictation, Rowland wrote a list of the different moneys he possessed in various places, and was utterly astonished to find that he had soon written down between sixty and seventy thousand pounds.  Everybody knew that Griffith Jenkins was rich, but nobody had guessed how rich he was.

’Now say, “I give and bequeath to my wife, ’Lizbeth Jenkins, ten thousand pound out of the aforesaid mortgage on Jacob Davies Llansadwn’s property."’

‘Is that all, Uncle Griff?’

‘Yes, I sha’n’t say no more.’

‘And the box of gold?’

Again the miser grasped Rowland’s hand, and fixed his keen eyes on his face.

’I ’ont be dying yet, and I ’ont be putting that down to-night.  Tell you your father what there is, without the box, and without more mortgages and loans; but don’t you be talking to anybody about it.  Mind you, not to Howel nor to ‘Lizbeth:  promise me.’

Rowland promised.

The miser fell back exhausted.

’And now Uncle Griff, may I pray for you?  Only think how soon you may be called to your account, to say exactly how you have employed your time, and the talents given—­’

’I have done plenty—­plenty—­all out at interest, at five, six, even ten per cent.; none wrapped up in a napkin.  I don’t be calling a box a napkin, Rowland Prothero.’

’May I call in Mrs Jenkins and Howel, and pray for you?  Think; oh think, of the great Judge, and great Mediator.  O God, have mercy upon us, miserable sinners!’

As Rowland said this, he clasped his hands, and looked upwards, in unutterable supplication.  The old man was alarmed.

’I don’t be going to die, but you may call ’em in.’

Rowland rose and obeyed.  Mrs Jenkins appeared with a candle in her hand.  The old man rose with an effort as she drew near the bed.

‘Put—­out—­the—­candle,’ he muttered.

As the night was fast drawing in, Mrs Jenkins hesitated.

‘Put—­out—­the—­candle,’ repeated the dying man, with a still stronger effort to rise and extinguish it himself.  ’The ruling passion strong in death’ must be attended to, and the light was extinguished.

Rowland Prothero clasped his hands with a groan, and repeated aloud a prayer from the service for the dying.  The terrified wife knelt down by the bed in the deep gloom, and in the still deeper gloom behind, the son buried his face in his arms, and leaned upon the little table.

Whilst Rowland Prothero was praying from the very depth of his heart for the soul that was thus awfully passing to its account, they were all aroused by the last fearful struggle between death and life of him who had made gold his god.  For some time they feared to rekindle the light, but at last they ventured.  It was but to witness the last dread pangs of one who had made wife and son secondary to the great absorbing passion of avarice; and now he was constrained to depart from the scene of his toil, and to leave all that he had grovelled for behind him, for ever!