ther was shot by Marcum's father, right after the War--in
the back, Warren. The horse knew enough to stop, and I rolled down to
the ground. Dr. Grayson ran down the street, carried me into the church
vestibule, and dressed my back. They wanted to keep me in the parson's
house--but I told them to bring me on home, for I wanted to be near
your mother. It was a mistake ... a grave mistake. For when they
brought me back in the doctor's buggy and called her to the portico,
she fainted, and never regained consciousness. That's all, Warren. The
end came last night for her--to-night I will join her."

He opened his eyes with ghastly intensity of expression. Then, to the
surprise of the younger man, he half raised himself on his elbow.

"Warren!" and the tones were almost shrill, "you must _get_ Jim Marcum
if it's the last act of your life. He broke the feud law when he killed
a woman, as he did with the death of your mother. My dying command is
that you end this old fight between our families: he is the last of his
line, and you the last of yours. The feud began nearly eighty years
ago. It is a different world then in that old Kentucky. I have tried to
live upright, God-fearing, and had supposed that time would efface the
old hatred. At least I ignored it. But Jim Marcum never forgot that
your Uncle Warren had killed his father in that stand-up battle in the
old tobacco warehouse; it is the curse of the Blue Grass State, this
feud law. But you must carry out the vengeance, Warren. When you scotch
that snake, there will be no more."

"Didn't they try to get Marcum, dad?" asked Warren slowly, trying to
realize it all.

"No. He disappeared--helped by some of those touts and gamblers. They
say he has gone to the mountains. But you follow him, after ... after
I...." He sank back again, groaning. "God bless you, boy. When you end
this bitter debt, you will have done everything in the world I ever
wanted,--what a fine son you have been through all the years!"

Warren rose to his feet, and with hands clasped tensely behind him
walked to the window. He heard a sound of buggy wheels and the trotting
of a horse; it neared the house.

"It must be the doctor, dad. I'm glad he is here again." He turned
about to look at the clear-cut face. He was horror-stricken: the eyes
were closed, the hand had dropped limply, and already the fine firm
mouth had opened weakly, with a piteous weakness. He rushed forward,
dropping again by the side of