"Judith--Judith--Judith!" each time more faintly still. There were other
Judiths in the world, but the voice--he knew the voice--somewhere he had
heard it. The moon was coming; it had crossed the other man's feet and
was creeping up his twisted body. It would reach his face in time, and,
if he could keep from fainting again, he would see.
"Water! water! water!"
Why did not some one answer? Crittenden called and called and called;
but he could little more than whisper. The man would die and be thrown
into that trench; or he might, and never know! He raised himself on
one elbow again and dragged his quivering body after it; he clinched his
teeth; he could hear them crunching again; he was near him now; he would
not faint; and then the blood gushed from his mouth and he felt the
darkness coming again, and again he heard: "Judith--Judith!"
Then there were footsteps near him and a voice--a careless voice: "He's gone."
He felt himself caught, and turned over; a hand was put to his heart for
a moment and the same voice: "Bring in that other man; no use fooling with this one."
When the light came back to him again, he turned his head feebly. The
shape was still there, but the moonlight had risen to the dead man's
breast and glittered on the edge of something that was clinched in his
right hand. It was a miniature, and Crittenden stared at
it--unwinking--stared and stared while it slowly came into the strong,
white light. It looked like the face of Judith. It wasn't, of course,
but he dragged himself slowly, slowly closer. It was Judith--Judith as
he had known her years ago. He must see now; he must see now, and he
dragged himself on and up until his eyes bent over the dead man's face.
He fell back then, and painfully edged himself away, shuddering.
"Blackford! Judith! Blackford!"
He was face to face with the man he had longed so many years to see; he
was face to face at last with him--dead.
As he lay there, his mood changed and softened and a curious pity filled
him through and through. And presently he reached out with his left hand
and closed the dead man's eyes and drew his right arm to his side, and
with his left foot he straightened the dead man's right leg. The face
was in clear view presently--the handsome, dare-devil face--strangely
shorn of its evil lines now by the master-sculptor of the spirit--Death.
Peace was come to the face now; peace to the turbulent spirit; peace to
the man whose heart was pure and whose blood was tainted; who had lived
ever in the light of a baleful star. He had loved, and he had been
faithful to the end; and such a fate might have been his--as justly--God
knew.