to have his great hands about the mean throat of the man
Smallbones. It had set him wild with rebellion against the merciless
customs which permitted such an outrage upon justice. He had even
challenged the doctor in his fury, on his right to administer justice
and accept the condemnation of the men gathered there for the
purpose.

In his desire to serve his friend he passed beyond the bounds of all
discretion, of all safety for himself. He threatened that he would
move the whole world to bring just retribution upon those who had
participated in that night's work. And his threats and violence had
been received with a tolerant laughter. A derision more stinging and
ominous than the most furious outbreak.

The work would go on. The death penalty would be carried out. He knew
it. He knew it.

Then when it was all over, and the prisoner's guards had been
appointed, Jim had begged him to leave him.

"Thanks, Peter, old friend," he said. And then added with a whimsical
touch: "I'm tired to death of hearing your dear old voice. You've said
such a heap to-night. Get along. I don't want you any more. You see
you're too big, and you sure take up too much room--in my heart. So
long."

So he had been driven from his friend's side, and out into the
blackest night he had ever known.

Yes, it was an old, old man that now lurched his way across the
market-place toward his hut. He was weary, so weary in mind and
spirit. There was nothing now left for him to do but to go home
and--and sit there till the dawn. Was there no hope, none? There was
none. No earthly force could save Jim now. It wanted less than an hour
to dawn, and, between now and then----

And yet he believed Jim could have saved himself. There was not a man
in that room, from Doc Crombie downward, but knew that Jim was holding
back something. What was it? And why did he not speak? Peter had
asked him while the farce of a trial was at its height. He had begged
and implored him to speak out, but the answer he received was the same
as had been given to the doctor. Jim had told all he had to tell. Oh,
the whole thing was madness--madness.

But there was no madness in Jim, he admitted. Once when his
importunities tried him Jim had shown him just one brief glimpse of
the heart which no death penalty had the power to reveal.

Peter remembered his words now; they would live in his memory to his
dying day.

"You sure make me angry, Peter," he had said. "Even to you, ol