n't worth it. Give me more
of that brandy."

He lies back on the grimy pillow, breathing fast and painfully. Abbot
stands in silence a moment. Then his voice, stern and constrained, is
heard in question:

"Have you any messages, Hollins? Is there any way in which I can serve
you?"

"It seems tough--but the only friend I have to close my eyes is the man
I plotted against and nearly despoiled of his lady-love," mutters
Hollins. Either he is wandering a little bit or the brandy is potent
enough to blur his sense of the nearness of death. "I wanted to tell you
the truth--not that I look for forgiveness. I know your race well
enough. You'll see fair play, but love and hate are things you don't
change in much. I've no right to ask anything of you, but--who _is_
there? My God! I believe your wife that is to be was about the only
friend I had in the world--except Rix. He brought me back the letters,
and says she was so good to him. I hope he didn't ask her for money. He
swears he didn't, but he's such a liar! We both are, for that matter.
I'm glad, though, now, that my lies didn't hurt you. They didn't, did
they, Abbot? You're still engaged?"

"I--am engaged."

"Oh, well; if I only hadn't brought that damnable sorrow to that poor
child, and if I could only feel that they wouldn't shoot Rix, it
wouldn't be so bad--my going now. What _will_ they do with Rix?"

"He must stand trial for desertion, I fancy. The men nearly lynched him
as it was."

"I know, and you saved him. Isn't it all strange?" Here for over a year
we two have been plotting against you, and now, at the last, you're the
only friend we have. "Where is he?"

"Down below, under guard. You shall see him whenever you feel like it.
Is there any one else you want to see, Hollins?"

"Any one--any one? Ah, God! Yes, with a longing that burns. It is _her_
face. It is she--Bessie!" His hand steals feebly into his breast, and he
drags slowly forth a little packet of oiled silk. This he hugs close to
his fluttering heart, and his eyes seek those of the young soldier
standing there so strong, so self-reliant and erect. His glance seems
envious, even now, with the fast-approaching angel's death-seal dimming
their light, and the clammy dew gathering on his brow.

"It was your picture I sent her, just as you seem to stand there now. It
was I who won her, but she thinks I looked like you."

"Pardon me, Hollins," breaks in Abbot, with a voice that trembles
despite ever