n this," he mused, presently. "I
swear I'm rather comfortable now; a trifle numb--but we--I say, we must
all--all go some time, you know. Did you hear me?" he repeated, smiling.
"I was just saying that we must all go, one way or another, you know."

"I heard you," I said. "You are going now."

"Yes," he admitted, "one can't hold together forever under a pull like
this. You're an awfully decent sort. Give me a bit of paper. I want to
write." I found him a pencil and some pages of my notebook.

"To please you, I'll try to square some things," he said. "You've been
so deuced square and straight with me, all along. I'm--I'm Gordon, now,
I'm English. Word of a fighting man, my--my _friend_."

He leaned forward, peering down at the paper as though he did not
clearly see; but he wrote slowly for a time, absorbed in thought.

In all the death scenes which our country knew in thousands during those
years, I doubt if any more unbelievable than this ever had occurrence. I
saw the blood soaking all his garments, lying black on the ground about
him. I saw his face grow gray and his nails grow blue, his pallor deepen
as the veins lost their contents. I saw him die. But I swear that he
still sat there, calm as though he did not suffer, and forced his body
to do his will. And--though I ask a rough man's pardon for intruding my
own beliefs--since he used his last superb reserves to leave the truth
behind him, I myself thought that there must be somewhere an undying
instinct of truth and justice, governing even such as Gordon Orme; yes,
I hope, governing such as myself as well. Since then I have felt that
somewhere there must be a great religion written on the earth and in the
sky. As to what this could offer in peace to Gordon Orme I do not say.
His was a vast debt. Perhaps Truth never accepted it as paid. I do not
know.

There he sat, at last smiling again as he looked up. "Fingers getting
dreadfully stiff. Tongue will go next. Muscles still under the power for
a little time. Here, take this. You're going to live, and this is the
only thing--it'll make you miserable, but happy, too. Good-by. I'll not
stop longer, I think."

Like a flash his hand shot out to the weapon that lay near him on the
ground. I shrank back, expecting the ball full in my face. Instead, it
passed through his own brain!

His will was broken as that physical instrument, the brain, wonder seat
of the mysteries of the mind, was rent apart. His splendid mind n