nning. One thing was clear to him, they must go away from Idle Hour
where North had been so much a part of Elizabeth's life. Nothing had
been added to this decision when at length the train pulled into Mount
Hope.

"We are home, dear," he said gently.

[Illustration: She abandoned herself to despair.]

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

THE LAST LONG DAY

A long day, the last of many long days he told himself, was ended, and
John North stood by his window. Below in the yard into which he was
looking, but within the black shadow cast by the jail, was the gallows.
Though indistinguishable in the darkness, its shape was seared on his
brain, for he had lived in close fellowship with all it emphasized. It
was his gallows, it had grown to completion under his very eyes that it
might destroy him in the last hour.

There had been for him a terrible fascination in the gaunt thing that
gave out the odor of new wood; a thing men had made with their own
hands; a clumsy device to inflict a brutal death; a left-over from
barbarism which denied every claim of civilization and Christianity!
Now, as the moon crept up from behind the distant hills, the black
shadows retreated, and as he watched, timber by timber the gallows stood
forth distinct in the soft clear light. In a few hours, unless the
governor interfered, he would pass through the door directly below his
window. He pictured the group of grave-faced nervous officials, he saw
himself bound and blindfolded and helpless in their midst.

His fingers closed convulsively about the iron bars that guarded his
window, but the feeling of horror that suddenly seized him was remote
from self-pity. He was thinking of Elizabeth. What unspeakable
wretchedness he had brought into her life, and he was still to bequeath
her this squalid brutal death! It was the crowning shame and misery to
the long months of doubt and fearful suspense.

Up from the earth came the scent of living growing things. The leaves of
the great maples in the court-house grounds rustled in the spring
breeze, there was the soft incessant hum of insect life, and over all
the white wonderful moonlight. But he had no part in this universal
renewal--he was to die his purposeless unheroic death in the morning.
For himself he could almost believe he no longer cared; he had fully
accepted the idea. He had even taken his farewell of the few in Mount
Hope who had held steadfast in their friendship, and there only remained
for hi