ace against authorship. I will
not go into the writing business, for I do greatly prefer wealth and
honour, and to have my picture taken on a verandah with my arm around a
pillar as an exampler of a three years of successful life in Alberta
the Sunny.

CHAPTER XX

THE SHADOW OF THE SCAFFOLD

_It was my harassing duty to act as death-watch to the man who wrote
the appended diary. On the day before his execution he made no entry,
although he opened the book several times and once asked me to sharpen
his pencil. I was not present at his execution, but was informed that
he bore himself with dignity and calmness. The crime which he expiated
with his life was the murder of his wife who had left him to live with
another man. He had still one year to complete before obtaining his
degree as a medical practitioner. At his trial, he refused to take
refuge behind his wife's misdemeanour, nor would he permit his counsel
to urge this plea on his behalf_.

_I have held this unique diary for over a year, not feeling at liberty
to give it to the public while in 'the service of the Mounted
Police_.--E. F. M.

_There are yet six days till I die_.

The words the judge said were "hanged by the neck till dead." Ever
since, they have haunted me like a song that fastens itself on one and
will not be forgotten. The words drag out their ghastly length to the
sound of the Fort bell as it rings the hours. They drawl to the tread
of the sentinel who walks back and forth outside my
cell--_hanged--by--the--neck--till--dead_.

Does it take a man long to hang? I inquired of my guard, and although
we are not supposed to talk, he laughed nervously and said he had once
read of a doctor who cut down to a murderer's heart three minutes after
the drop fell. There was still enough force in the heart to ring an
electric bell.

_Five days more_!

They are a tireless breed, the red-police of Canada, and they have an
eye in the centre of their foreheads that never sleeps. I once heard
there was such an eye, but I forget about it.

This boy who watches me is nearly my own age, and I can see he is sorry
for me. I will not whimper and wince, but will hedge myself about with
a fence of laughter and bravado. It is the last kindness I can do to
any one.

I like him better than the priest who visits me. I look at the priest
with curious eyes, this man who in five days will wish me a pleasant
journey into eternity. He it is who wil