ld the
mirror close to the faintly parted lips, examined it, and then drew
slowly back towards the door, his eyes steady upon Mac Strann.

"Mac," he said, "it's come. I got just this to say: whatever you do, for
God's sake stay inside the law!"

And he slipped through the door and was gone.

But Mac Strann did not raise his head or cast a glance after the
marshal. He sat turning the limp hand of Jerry back and forth in his
own, and his eyes wandered vaguely through the window and down to the
roofs of the village.

Night thickened perceptibly every moment, yet still while the eastern
slope of every roof was jet black, the western slopes were bright, and
here and there at the distance the light turned and waned on upper
windows. Sleep was coming over the world, and eternal sleep had come for
Jerry Strann.

It did not seem possible.

Some night at sea, when clouds hurtled before the wind across the sky
and when the waves leaped up mast-high; when some good ship staggered
with the storm, when hundreds were shrieking and yelling in fear or
defiance of death; there would have been a death-scene for Jerry Strann.

Or in the battle, when hundreds rush to the attack with one man in front
like the edge before the knife--there would have been a death-scene for
Jerry Strann. Or while he rode singing, a bolt of lightning that slew
and obliterated at once--such would have been a death for Jerry Strann.

It was not possible that he could die like this, with a smile. There was
something incompleted. The fury of the death-struggle which had been
omitted must take place, and the full rage of wrath and destruction must
be vented. Can a bomb explode and make no sound and do no injury?

Yet Jerry Strann was dead and all the world lived on. Someone cantered
his horse down the street and called gayly to an acquaintance, and
afterwards the dust rose, invisible, and blew through the open window
and stung the nostrils of Mac Strann. A child cried, faintly, in the
distance, and then was hushed by the voice of the mother, making a
sound like a cackling hen. This was all!

There should have been wailing and weeping and cursing and praying, for
handsome Jerry Strann was dead. Or there might have been utter and
dreadful silence and waiting for the stroke of vengeance, for the
brightest eye was misted and the strongest hand was unnerved and the
voice that had made them tremble was gone.

But there was neither silence nor weeping. Someone