“Anthony!”
He could not choose but halt, groaning to give up
the chase, and then sped back to the fallen man.
At his coming John Bard collapsed on the grass, and
when Anthony knelt beside him a voice in rough dialect
began, as if an enforced culture were brushed away
and forgotten in the crisis: “Anthony,
there ain’t no use in followin’ him!”
“Where did the bullet strike you? Quick!”
“A place where it ain’t no use to look.
I know!”
“Let me follow him; it’s not too late—”
The dying man struggled to one elbow.
“Don’t follow, lad, if you love me.”
“Who is he? Give me his name and—”
“He’s acted in the name of God. You
have no right to hunt him down.”
“Then the law will do that.”
“Not the law. For God’s sake swear—”
“I’ll swear anything. But now lie
quiet; let me—”
“Don’t try. This couldn’t end
no other way for John Bard.”
“Is that your real name?”
“Yes. Now listen, Anthony, for my time’s
short.”
He closed his eyes as if fighting silently for strength.
Then: “When I was a lad like you, Anthony—”
That was all. The massive body relaxed; the head
fell back into the dewy grass. Anthony pressed
his head against the breast of John Bard and it seemed
to him that there was still a faint pulse. With
his pocket knife he ripped away the coat from the
great chest and then tore open the shirt. On the
expanse of the hairy chest there was one spot from
which the purple blood welled; a deadly place for
a wound, and yet the bleeding showed that there must
still be life.
He had no chance to bind the wound, for John Bard
opened his eyes again and said, as if in his dream
he had still continued his tale to Anthony.
“So that’s all the story, lad. Do
you forgive me?”
“For what, sir? In God’s name, for
what?”
“Damnation! Tell me; do you forgive John
Bard?”
He did not hear the answer, for he murmured:
“Even Joan would forgive,” and died.
BLUEBEARD’S ROOM
As Anthony Woodbury, he knelt beside the dying.
As Anthony Bard he rose with the dead man in his arms
a mighty burden even for his supple strength; yet
he went staggering up the slope, across a level terrace,
and back to the house. There it was Peters who
answered his call, Peters with a flabby face grown
grey, but still the perfect servant who asked no questions;
together they bore the weight up the stairs and placed
it on John Bard’s bed. While Anthony kept
his steady vigil by the dead man, it was Peters again
who summoned the police and the useless doctor.
To the old, uniformed sergeant, Anthony told a simple
lie. His father had gone for a walk through the
grounds because the night was fine, and Anthony was
to join him there later, but when he arrived he found
a dying man who could not even explain the manner
of his death.
