Farley sat up as one dazed and seemed to be trying to
get on his feet. Twice and once again he essayed it, falling back each
time upon the bent and doubled leg. Then he looked up and saw the
slag-car coming; saw and cried out as men scream in the death agony. The
end rails of the dumping track were fairly above him.

Gordon heard the yell of terror and witnessed the frenzied efforts of
the doomed man to rise and get out of the path of the impending torrent.
Whereupon the murder devil whispered in his ear again. Farley's foot was
caught in one of the many scars or seams in the lava bed. It was only
necessary to wait, to withhold the merciful bullet, to go away and leave
the wretched man to his fate.

That fate was certain, lacking a miracle to avert it. There were no
workmen in that part of the yard; and the two men in charge of the slag
kettle were on the opposite side of the engine where the dumping
mechanism was connected. Farley was screaming again, but now the
safety-valve of the locomotive was blowing off steam with a din to drown
all.

Gordon tossed the gun aside and turned away. It was better so. Possibly
at the climaxing instant he might have lacked the firmness to aim and
press the trigger. This was simpler, easier, more in keeping with
Vincent Farley's deserts; more satisfying to the thirst for vengeance.

Was it? Like a bolt from the heavens, into the very midst of the
cold-blooded, murderous triumph, came a long-neglected form of words,
writing itself in flaming letters in his brain: _Thou shall do no
murder._ And after it another: _But I say unto you, love your enemies,
bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you._

He put his hands before his eyes, stumbled blindly and fell down,
groveling in the yellow sand of the ore floor, as that one of old whom
the possessing devils tore and rended. Hell and the furies!--was this to
be the end of it? Did the old, time-worn fables planted in the lush and
mellow soil of childhood wait only for the moment of superhuman trial to
assert themselves truth of the very truth? God in Heaven! must he be
flogged back into the ranks he had deserted when every drop of blood in
his veins was crying out for shame?

Something gripped him and stood him on his feet, and before he realized
what he was doing he was running, gasping, tripping and falling
headlong, only to spring up and run again, with all thoughts trampled
out and beaten down by one: would he still be i