d likewise at the word and came part way
swiftly; then stopped, his face very pale. Another step he took, with
another pause, and with great drops of perspiration gathering on his
face, and on the backs of his hands. Yet another start, and he came
very near; so near that he gazed into the blue of Ichabod's eyes. They
seemed to him now devil's eyes, and he halted, looking at them,
fingering the weapon in his hand, his courage oozing at every pore.

Out of those eyes and that long, thin face stared death; not hot,
sudden death, but nihility, cool, deliberate, that waited for one! The
big beads on his forehead gathered in drops and ran down his cheeks.
He tried to move on, but his legs only trembled beneath him. The
hopeless, unreasoning terror of the frightened animal, the raw
recruit, the superstitious negro, was upon him. The last fragment of
self-respect, of bravado even, was in tatters. No object on earth, no
fear of hereafter, could have made him face death in that way, with
those eyes looking into his.

The weapon shook from Duggin's hand to the floor,--with a sound like
the first clatter of gravel on a coffin lid; and in abasement
absolute he dropped his head; his hands nerveless, his jaw
trembling.

"I beg your pardon--and your wife's," he faltered.

"It was all a lie? You were drunk?" Ichabod crossed the line, standing
over him.

A rustle and a great snort of contempt went around the room; but
Duggin still felt those terrible eyes upon him.

"I was very drunk. It was all a lie."

Without another word Ichabod turned away, and almost immediately the
other men followed, the door closing behind them. Only the bar-keeper
stood impassive, watching.

That instant the red heat of the liquor returned to the big man's
brain and he picked up the revolver. Muttering, he staggered over to
the bar.

"D--n him--the hide-faced--" he cursed. "Gimme a drink, Barney.
Whiskey, straight."

"Not a drop."

"What?"

"Never another drop in my place so long as I live."

"Barney, damn you!"

"Get out! You coward!"

"But, Barney--"

"Not another word. Go."

Again Duggin was sober as he stumbled out into the evening.

* * * * *

Ichabod moved slowly up the street, months aged in those last few
minutes. Reaction was inevitable, and with it the future instead of
the present, stared him in the face. He had crowded the lie down the
man's throat, but well he knew it had been us