were always the sort to make
sport for yourself out of suffering, and then to toss the dregs of your
amusement to those who are not--sportsmen."

Eustace was as white as he was himself. He held him in a grip of iron.
"What the--devil do you mean?" he said, his voice husky with the strong
effort he made to control it.

The younger brother was absolutely controlled, but his eyes shone like a
dazzling white flame. "Ask yourself that question!" he said, and his
words, though low, had a burning quality, almost as if some force apart
from the man himself inspired them. "You know the answer as well as I do.
You have studied the damnable game so long, offered so many victims upon
the altar of your accursed sport. There is nothing to prevent your going
on with it. You will go on no doubt till you tire of the chase. And then
your turn will come. You will find yourself alone among the ruins, and
you will pay the price. You may repent then--but repentance sometimes
comes too late."

He was gone with the words, gone as if an inner force compelled, shaking
off the hand that had detained him, and passing scatheless within.

He went up the stairs as calmly as if he had entered the house without
interruption. Someone was sobbing piteously behind a closed door, but he
did not turn in that direction. He moved straight to the door of Isabel's
room, as if a voice had called him.

And on the threshold Biddy met him, her black eyes darkly mysterious, her
wrinkled face drawn with awe rather than grief.

"Ah, Master Scott, and is it yourself?" she whispered. "I was coming to
fetch ye--coming to tell ye. It's the call; she's had her last summons.
Faith, and I almost heard it meself. She'll be gone by morning, the
blessed lamb. There'll be no holding her after this."

Scott passed her by without a word. He went straight to his sister's
bedside.

She was lying with her face turned up to the evening sky, but on the
instant her eyes met his, and in them was that look of a great
expectation which many term the Shadow of Death.

"Oh, Stumpy, is it you?" she said. Her breathing was quick and irregular,
but it did not seem to hurt her. "I've had--such a wonderful--dream. Or
could it have been--a vision?"

He bent and took her hand in his. His eyes were infinitely tender. All
the passion had been wiped out of his face.

"It may have been a vision, dear," he said.

Her look brightened; she smiled. "He was here--in this room--with me,"
she s