" he cried suddenly, with the same screaming tone of
voice that I had once before observed, "what is wrong? is this swamp
accursed?"

"It is a grave," I answered. "You will not go out alive; and as for me,
my life is in God's hands."

He fell upon the ground like a man struck by a blow, but whether from
the effect of my words, or from sudden seizure of the malady, I cannot
tell. Pretty soon he raised his head. "You have brought me here to die,"
he said; "at the risk of your own days, you have condemned me. Why?"

"To save my honour," I replied. "Bear me out that I have warned you.
Greed of these pebbles, and not I, has been your undoer."

He took out his revolver and handed it to me. "You see," he said, "I
could have killed you even yet. But I am dying, as you say; nothing
could save me; and my bill is long enough already. Dear me, dear me," he
said, looking in my face with a curious, puzzled, and pathetic look,
like a dull child at school, "if there be a judgment afterwards, my bill
is long enough."

At that, I broke into a passion of weeping, crawled at his feet, kissed
his hands, begged his forgiveness, put the pistol back into his grasp,
and besought him to avenge his death; for indeed, if with my life I
could have bought back his, I had not balanced at the cost. But he was
determined, the poor soul, that I should yet more bitterly regret my
act.

"I have nothing to forgive," said he. "Dear Heaven, what a thing is an
old fool! I thought, upon my word, you had taken quite a fancy to me."

He was seized, at the same time, with a dreadful, swimming dizziness,
clung to me like a child, and called upon the name of some woman.
Presently this spasm, which I watched with choking tears, lessened and
died away; and he came again to the full possession of his mind. "I must
write my will," he said. "Get out my pocket-book." I did so, and he
wrote hurriedly on one page with a pencil. "Do not let my son know," he
said; "he is a cruel dog, is my son Philip; do not let him know how you
have paid me out"; and then all of a sudden, "God," he cried, "I am
blind," and clapped both hands before his eyes; and then again, and in a
groaning whisper, "Don't leave me to the crabs!" I swore I would be true
to him so long as a pulse stirred; and I redeemed my promise. I sat
there and watched him, as I had watched my father; but with what
different, with what appalling thoughts! Through the long afternoon, he
gradually sank. All that wh