.

But now--_Mon Pere, je me 'cuse_--there was something more, something
that would not fall into the catalogue of the sins of every day. It
had begun a long time ago and it was just coming to an end here at the
feet of the Bishop. Yes, it was undoubtedly coming to an end. For the
Bishop had found blood caked on the man's shirt, in the back, just
below the shoulder blade. There was a wound there, a bullet wound, a
wound from which ordinarily the man would have fallen and stayed lying
where he fell.

He must tell this thing in his own way, backwards, as it unrolled
itself to his mind.

"I die, Mon Pere, I die," he began between gasps. "I die. Since the
afternoon I have been dying. If I could have found a spot to lie down,
if I could have had two minutes free from the fire, I would have lain
down to die. But shall a man lie down in hell before he is dead? No.

"All day I have run from the fire. I could not lie down to die till I
had found a free place where my soul could breathe out. Here I
breathe. Here I die. The rabbits and the foxes and the deer ran out
from the fire, and they ran no faster than I ran. But I could not run
out of its way. All day long men followed the line of the fire and
fought around its edge. They fought the fire, but they hunted me. All
the day long they hunted me and drove me always back into the fire
when I would run out.

"They hunted me because in the early morning they had seen me with the
men who set the fire. No. I did not do that. I did not set hand to the
fire. Why was I with those men? Why did I go with them when they went
to set the fire? Ah, that is a longer tale.

"Four years ago I was in Utica. It was in a drinking place. All were
drinking. There was a fight. A man was killed. I struck no blow. _Mon
Pere_, I struck no blow. But my knife--my knife was found in the man's
heart. Who struck? I know not. A detective for this railroad that
comes now into the hills found my knife. He traced it to me. He showed
the knife to me. It was mine. I could not deny. But he said no word to
the law. With the knife he could hang me. But he said no word. Only to
me he said, 'Some day I may need you.'

"Last winter that man the detective came into the hills. Now he was
not a detective. He was Rogers. He was the agent for the railroad. He
would buy the land from the people.

"The people would not sell. You know of the matter. In June he came
again. He was angry, because other men above him were a