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Suddenly he stopped and stood still, looking at something on the ground. They saw him lean forward and his hands stretched out with a fierce gesture. It was the attitude of a wild animal ready to spring.

They were beside him in an instant, and saw at his feet Bignold worn to a skeleton, with eyes starting from his head and fixed on Grassette in agony and stark fear.

The Sheriff stooped to lift Bignold up, but Grassette waved them back with a fierce gesture, standing over the dying man.

“He spoil my home. He break me–I have my bill to settle here,” he said, in a voice hoarse and harsh. “It is so? It is so–eh? Spik!” he said to Bignold.

“Yes,” came feebly from the shrivelled lips. “Water! Water!” the wretched man gasped. “I’m dying!”

A sudden change came over Grassette. “Water–queeck!” he said.

The Sheriff stooped and held a hatful of water to Bignold’s lips, while another poured brandy from a flask into the water.

Grassette watched them eagerly. When the dying man had swallowed a little of the spirit and water, Grassette leaned over him again, and the others drew away. They realized that these two men had an account to settle, and there was no need for Grassette to take revenge, for Bignold was going fast.

“You stan’ far back,” said Grassette, and they fell away.

Then he stooped down to the sunken, ashen face, over which death was fast drawing its veil.

“Marcile–where is Marcile?” he asked.

The dying man’s lips opened. “God forgive me–God save my soul!” he whispered. He was not concerned for Grassette now.

“Queeck–queeck, where is Marcile?” Grassette said, sharply. “Come back, Bignold. Listen–where is Marcile?”

He strained to hear the answer. Bignold was going, but his eyes opened again, however, for this call seemed to pierce to his soul as it struggled to be free.

“Ten years–since–I saw her,” he whispered. “Good girl–Marcile. She loves you, but she–is afraid.” He tried to say something more, but his tongue refused its office.

“Where is she?–spik!” commanded Grassette, in a tone of pleading and agony now.

Once more the flying spirit came back. A hand made a motion toward his pocket, then lay still.

Grassette felt hastily in the dead man’s pocket, drew forth a letter, and with half-blinded eyes read the few lines it contained. It was dated from a hospital in New York, and was signed, “Nurse Marcile.”

With a groan of relief Grassette stood staring at the dead man. When the others came to him again, his lips were moving, but they did not hear what he was saying. They took up the body and moved away with it up the ravine.

“It’s all right, Grassette. You’ll be a free man,” said the Sheriff.

Grassette did not answer. He was thinking how long it would take him to get to Marcile, when he was free.

He had a true vision of beginning life again with Marcile.