There came into his mind some recollection of words that she had
written to him once--something about the sound of water. He lifted his
head and listened. Yes, there was a sound coming faintly through the
night--the trickle of a little brook in the ravine below the window.

Always, he recalled, she had spoken of the sound of water, saying that
that music would blot out memory--saying that water would wash out
secrets, would wash out sins. What was it she had said? What was it
she had written to him long ago? What did it mean--about the water?

The sound of the little brook came to his ears again in some shift of
the wind. He rose and stumbled toward the window, carrying the candle
in his hand. His haggard face was lighted by its flare as he stood
there, leaning out, listening.

It was then that his doom came to him.

There came the sound of a shot; a second; and yet another.

The woman in the cabin near by heard them clearly enough. She rose and
listened. There was no sound from the other cabins. The servants paid
no attention to the shots, if they had heard them--and why should they
not have heard them? No one called out, no one came running.

Frightened, the woman rose, and after a time stepped timidly across
the covered space between the two rooms, toward the light which she
saw shining faintly through the cracks of the door. She heard groans
within.

A tall and ghastly figure met her as she approached the door. She saw
his face, white and haggard and stained. From a wound in the forehead
a broad band of something dark fell across his cheek. From his throat
something dark was welling. He clutched a hand on his breast--and his
fingers were dark.

He was bleeding from three wounds; but still he stood and spoke to
her.

"In God's name, Madam," said he, "bring me water! I am killed!"

She ran away, she knew not where, calling to the others to come; but
they did not come. She was alone. Once more, forgetful of her errand,
incapable of rendering aid, she went back to the door.

She heard no sound. She flung open the door and peered into the room.
The candle was standing, broken and guttering, on the floor. She could
see the scattered belongings of the traveling-cases, empty now. The
occupant of the room was gone! In terror she fled once more, back to
her own room, and cowered in her bed.

Staggering, groping, his hands strained to him to hold in the life
that was passing, Meriwether Lewis had left the room w