Martin Conisby

But at this I grew surly and having made an end of my rough surgery, I went and cast myself upon my bed of straw and, lying there, watching the sunbeam creep upon the wall, I fell to pondering this problem, viz: How came I thus striving to soothe the woes of this man I had hunted all these years to his destruction; why must I pity his hurts and compassionate his weakness--why?

And as I sat, my fists clenched, scowling at the sun-ray, it verily seemed as he had read these my thoughts.

"Martin Conisby," said he, his voice grown stronger. "Oh, Martin, think it not shame to pity thine enemy; to cherish them that despitefully use you; this is Godlike. I was a proud man and merciless but I have learned much by sufferings, and for the wrongs I did you--bitterly have I repented. So would I humbly sue forgiveness of you since I am to die so soon--"

"To die?"

"Aye, Martin, at the next auto-da-fé--by the fire--"

"The fire!" said I, clenching my fists.

"They have left me my life that I may burn--"

"When?" I demanded 'twixt shut teeth. "When?"

"To-day--to-morrow--the day after--what matter? But when the flames have done their work, I would fain go to God bearing with me your forgiveness. But if this be too much to hope--why, then, Martin, I will beseech God to pluck you forth of this place of horror and to give you back to England, to happiness, to honour and all that I reft from you--"

"Nay, this were thing impossible!" I cried.

"There is nought impossible to God, Martin!" Here fell silence awhile and then, "Oh, England--England!" cried he. "D'ye mind how the road winds 'twixt the hedgerows a-down hill into Lamberhurst, Martin; d'ye mind the wonder of it all--the green meadows, the dim woods full of bird song and fragrance--you shall see it all again one day, but as for me--ah, to breathe just once again the sweet smell of English earth! But God's will be done!"

For a while I sat picturing to my fancy the visions his words had conjured up; lifting my head at last, I started up to see him so pale and still and bending above him, saw him sleeping, placid as any child, yet with the marks of tears upon his shrunken cheek.