dark night's work and the belief that he had fallen shot, being his
cloak; and the search for the body of a convict soon being at an end.
You see all this?"

Brettison bowed his head.

"Think, then, of my position; put yourself in my place. What jury--what
judge would believe my story that it was an accident? It seemed to me
too plain. The world would say that I slew him in my disappointment and
despair. Yes, I know they might have called it manslaughter, but I must
have taken his place--a convict in my turn."

"You thought that?"

"Yes, I thought that--I think it now. I could not--I dared not speak.
Everything was against me, and in my horror temptation came."

Brettison looked at him sharply.

"The hope was so pitiful, so faint, so weak, Brettison; but still it
would linger in my maddened brain that some day in the future--after
years, maybe, of expiation of the deed--I might, perhaps, approach her
once again. I thought so then. The secret would be between me and my
Maker, and in his good time he might say to my heart: `It is enough.
You have suffered all these years. Your sin is condoned--your
punishment is at an end.' I tell you I thought all that, and in my
madness I dared not let the thing be known. She would know it, too, and
if she did I felt that hope would be dead indeed, and that I had, too,
better die."

Stratton ceased speaking, and let his head fall upon his hand.

"Put yourself in my place, I say. Think of yourself as being once more
young and strong--the lover of one whom, in a few short hours, you would
have clasped as your wife, and then try and find excuse for my mad
action--for I know now that it was mad, indeed."

"Yes, mad indeed," muttered Brettison.

"Well, I need say no more. You know so much, you must know the rest.
They came to me, fearing I had been killed--robbed and murdered. They
found me at last, when I was forced to admit them, looking, I suppose, a
maniac; for I felt one then, compelled to face them, and hear the old
man's reproaches, in horror lest they should discover the wretched
convict lying dead, and no word to say in my defence. Nature could bear
no more. My wound robbed me of all power to act, and I fainted--to come
to, fearing that all was discovered; but their imaginations had led them
astray. They had found my wound and the pistol. It was an attempt at
suicide. Poor Guest recalled the first--I do not wonder. And they went
away at last, looking