m now. He wrote on without
lifting his head. At last the letter was finished and inclosed with a
brief note to the general.

The pen dropped from North's fingers and he stood erect, he was aware
that men were still speaking below his window, then he heard footfalls
in the corridor, and turned toward the door. It was the sheriff and his
deputy. Conklin seemed on the verge of collapse, and Brockett's face was
drawn and ghastly.

There was a grim pause, and then Conklin, in a voice that was but a
shadow of itself, read the death-warrant. When he had finished, North
cast a last glance about his cell and passed out of the door between the
two men. They walked the length of the corridor, descended the stairs,
and entered the jail office. North turned to Conklin.

"I wish to thank you and Brockett for your kindness to me, and if you do
not mind I should like to shake hands with you both and say good-by
here," for through the office windows he had caught sight of the group
of men in the yard.

The sheriff, silent, held out his hand. He dared not trust himself to
speak. North looked into his face.

"I am sorry for you," he said.

"My God, you may well be!" gasped Conklin.

North shook hands with Brockett and walked toward the door; but as he
neared it, Brockett stepped in front of him and threw it open. As North
passed out into the graveled yard, out into the full light of the warm
spring day, the sheriff mechanically looked at his watch. It was twenty
minutes after eight.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

AT IDLE HOUR

From her window Elizabeth saw the gray dawn which ushered in that June
day steal over the valley below Idle Hour. Swiftly out of the darkness
of the long night grew the accustomed shape of things. Wooded pastures
and plowed fields came mysteriously into existence as the light spread,
then the sun burst through the curtain of mist which lay along the
eastern horizon, and it was day--the day of _his_ death.

Their many failures trooped up out of the past and mocked at her;
because of them he must die. They had gone with feverish haste from hope
to hope to this dread end! Perhaps she had never really believed before
that the day and hour would overtake them; when effort would promise
nothing. But now the very sense of tragedy filled that silent morning,
and her soul was in fearful companionship with it. A flood of wild
imaginings swept her forward, across the little space of time that was
left to her love