“I—­I see,” he said.  “You and Cardigan think it would have been better if I had died!”

The missioner was still holding his hand.  “I don’t know, Jimmy, I don’t know.  What has happened is terrible.”

“But not so terrible as death,” cried Kent, suddenly growing rigid against his pillows.  “Great God, mon pere, I want to live!  Oh—­”

He snatched his hand free and stretched forth both arms to the open window.  “Look at it out there!  My world again!  My world!  I want to go back to it.  It’s ten times more precious to me now than it was.  Why should I blame Cardigan?  Mon pere—­mon pere—­listen to me.  I can say it now, because I’ve got a right to say it.  I lied. I didn’t kill John Barkley!”

A strange cry fell from Father Layonne’s lips.  It was a choking cry, a cry, not of rejoicing, but of a grief-stung thing.  “Jimmy!”

“I swear it!  Great heaven, mon pere, don’t you believe me?”

The missioner had risen.  In his eyes and face was another look.  It was as if in all his life he had never seen James Kent before.  It was a look born suddenly of shock, the shock of amazement, of incredulity, of a new kind of horror.  Then swiftly again his countenance changed, and he put a hand on Kent’s head.

“God forgive you, Jimmy,” he said.  “And God help you, too!”

Where a moment before Kent had felt the hot throb of an inundating joy, his heart was chilled now by the thing he sensed in Father Layonne’s voice and saw in his face and eyes.  It was not entirely disbelief.  It was a more hopeless thing than that.

“You do not believe me!” he said.

“It is my religion to believe, Jimmy,” replied Father Layonne in a gentle voice into which the old calmness had returned.  “I must believe, for your sake.  But it is not a matter of human sentiment now, lad.  It is the Law!  Whatever my heart feels toward you can do you no good.  You are—­” He hesitated to speak the words.

Then it was that Kent saw fully and clearly the whole monstrous situation.  It had taken time for it to fasten itself upon him.  In a general way it had been clear to him a few moments before; now, detail by detail, it closed in upon him, and his muscles tightened, and Father Layonne saw his jaw set hard and his hands clench.  Death was gone.  But the mockery of it, the grim exultation of the thing over the colossal trick it had played, seemed to din an infernal laughter in his ears.  But—­he was going to live!  That was the one fact that rose above all others.  No matter what happened to him a month or six months from now, he was not going to die today.  He would live to receive Mercer’s report.  He would live to stand on his feet again and to fight for the life which he had thrown away.  He was, above everything else, a fighting man.  It was born in him to fight, not so much against his fellow men as against the overwhelming odds of adventure as they came to him.  And now he was up against