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<h2>CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR</h2> <h3>THE LAST LONG DAY</h3> A long day, the last of many long days he told himself, was ended, and John North stood by his window. Below in the yard into which he was looking, but within the black shadow cast by the jail, was the gallows. Though indistinguishable in the darkness, its shape was seared on his brain, for he had lived in close fellowship with all it emphasized. It was his gallows, it had grown to completion under his very eyes that it might destroy him in the last hour. There had been for him a terrible fascination in the gaunt thing that gave out the odor of new wood; a thing men had made with their own hands; a clumsy device to inflict a brutal death; a left-over from barbarism which denied every claim of civilization and Christianity! Now, as the moon crept up from behind the distant hills, the black shadows retreated, and as he watched, timber by timber the gallows stood forth distinct in the soft clear light. In a few hours, unless the governor interfered, he would pass through the door directly below his window. He pictured the group of grave-faced nervous officials, he saw himself bound and blindfolded and helpless in their midst. His fingers closed convulsively about the iron bars that guarded his window, but the feeling of horror that suddenly seized him was remote from self-pity. He was thinking of Elizabeth. What unspeakable wretchedness he had brought into her life, and he was still to bequeath her this squalid brutal death! It was the crowning shame and misery to the long months of doubt and fearful suspense. Up from the earth came the scent of living growing things. The leaves of the great maples in the court-house grounds rustled in the spring breeze, there was the soft incessant hum of insect life, and over all the white wonderful moonlight. But he had no part in this universal renewal—he was to die his purposeless unheroic death in the morning. For himself he could almost believe he no longer cared; he had fully accepted the idea. He had even taken his farewell of the few in Mount Hope who had held steadfast in their friendship, and there only remained for him to die decently; to meet the inevitable with whatever courage there was in his soul. He heard Brockett's familar step and suddenly, intent and listening, he faced the door; but the deputy came slowly down the corridor and as he entered the cell, paused, and shook his head. "No word yet, John," he said regretfully. "Is the train in?" asked North. "Yes, Conklin went down to meet it. He's just back; I guess they'll come on the ten-thirty." North again turned listlessly toward the window. "I wouldn't own myself beat yet, John!" said the deputy. "I've gone down at every crisis! I didn't think the grand jury would indict me, I didn't think I would be convicted at the trial!" He made a weary gesture. "What right have I to think they will be able to influence the governor?" There was a moment's silence broken by the deputy. "I'll be outside, and if you want anything, let me know." It was the death-watch, and poor Brockett was to keep it. North fell to pacing his narrow bounds. Without, the wind had risen and presently there came the patter of rain on the roof. Thick darkness again enveloped the jail yard; and the gallows—his gallows—was no longer visible. For an hour or more the storm raged and then it passed as swiftly as it had gathered. Once more he became aware of the incessant hum of the insect world, and the rustling of the great maples in the court-house grounds. As he listened to these sounds, from somewhere off in the distance he heard the shriek of an engine's whistle. They were coming now if they came at all! In spite of himself, his hope revived. To believe that they had failed was out of the question, and the beat of his pulse and the throb of his heart quickened. He endured twenty minutes of suspense, then he heard voices; Brockett threw open the door, and Elizabeth, white-faced and shaking, was before him. "John!" she cried, with such anguish that in one terrible instant all hope went from him. His soul seemed to stand naked at the very gates of death, and the vision of his brutal ending came before his burning eyes. Words of protest trembled on his lips. This endured but for an imperceptible space of time, and then that larger pity which was not for himself but for Elizabeth, took him quickly to her side. "John—" she cried again, and held out her arms. "Do not speak—I know," he said. Her head drooped on his shoulder, and her strength seemed to forsake her. "I know, dear!" he repeated. "We could do nothing!" she gasped. "You have done everything that love and devotion could do!" She looked up into his face. "You are not afraid?" she whispered, clinging to him. "I think not," he said simply. "You are very brave, John—I shall try to be brave, also." "My dear, dear Elizabeth!" he murmured sadly, and they were silent. Without, in the corridor, an occasional whispered word passed between General Herbert and the deputy. "The governor would do nothing, John," Elizabeth faltered at length. "I understand, dear," he said tenderly. "He would not even see us; we went repeatedly to his house and to the capitol, and in the end we saw his secretary. The governor had left town; he never intended to see us! To reach this end—when nothing can be done—" Her eyes grew wide with horror. He drew her closer, and touched her cold lips with his. "There is one thing you can do that will be a comfort to me, Elizabeth; let your father take you home!" "No, no, I must stay till morning, until the day breaks—don't send me away, John!" she entreated. "It will be easier—" Yet his arms still held her close to him, and he gazed down into the upturned face that rested against his breast. It was his keen sense of her suffering that weighed on him now. What a wreck he had made of her life—what infinite compassion and pity he felt! He held her closer. "What is it, dear?" she asked. But he could not translate his feeling into words. "Oh, if there were only something we could do!" she moaned. "Through all these weeks you have given me hope and strength! You say that I am brave! Your love and devotion have lifted me out of myself; I would be ashamed to be a coward when I think of all you have endured!" He felt her shiver in his arms, then in the momentary silence the court-house bell struck the half-hour. "I thought it was later," she said, as the stroke of the bell died out in the stillness. "It is best that you should leave this place, dearest—" "Don't send me from you, John—I can not bear that yet—" she implored. Pityingly and tenderly his eyes looked deep into hers. What had she not endured for his sake! And the long days of effort had terminated in this last agony of disappointment; but now, and almost mercifully, he felt the fruitless struggle was ended. All that remained was the acceptance of an inexorable fate. He drew forward his chair for her, and as she sank wearily into it, he seated himself on the edge of the cot at her side. "McBride's murderer will be found one of these days, and then all the world will know that what you believe is the truth," said North at length. "Yes, dear," replied Elizabeth simply. Some whispered word of General Herbert's or the deputy's reached them in the interval of silence that ensued. Then presently in that silence they had both feared to break, the court-house bell rang again. It was twelve o'clock. Elizabeth rose. "I am going now—John—" she said, in a voice so low that he scarcely heard her. "I am going home. You wish it—and you must sleep—" She caught his hands and pressed them to her heart. "Oh, my darling—good night—" She came closer in his arms, and held up her lips for him to kiss. The passion of life had given place to the chill of death. It was to-day that he was to die! No longer could they think of it as a thing of to-morrow, for at last the day had come. "Yes, you must go," he said, in the same low voice in which she had spoken. "I love you, John—" "As I do you, beloved—" he answered gently. "Oh, I can not leave you! My place is here with you to the very last—do not send me away!" "I could not bear it," he said steadily. "You must leave Mount Hope to-morrow—to-day—" He felt her arms tighten about his neck. "To-day?" she faltered miserably. "To-day—" Her arms relaxed. He pressed his lips to her pale cold lips and to her eyes, from which the light of consciousness had fled. "General Herbert!" he called. Instantly the general appeared in the doorway. "She has fainted!" said North. Her father turned as if with some vague notion of asking assistance, but North checked him. "For God's sake take her away while she is still unconscious!" and he placed her in her father's arms. For a moment his hand lingered on the general's shoulder. "Thank you—good-by!" and he turned away abruptly. "Good-by—God bless you, John!" said the general in a strained voice. He seemed to hesitate for a moment as if he wished to say more; then as North kept his back turned on him, he gathered the unconscious girl closer in his arms, and walked from the room. North remained by the window, his hands clutching the bars with convulsive strength, then the wind which blew fresh and strong in his face brought him the sound of wheels; but this quickly died out in the distance. Brockett tiptoed into the cell. "I am going to lie down and see if I can get some sleep," North said, throwing off his coat. "If I sleep, call me as soon as it is light—good night." <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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