the hand on the hilt, and there was a scar on it.  About fifteen years before, I was acting as officer of the guard one night at Bethune.  It was a bright starlit night, you remember, and just as I turned the corner of the old powder-house there came a sudden flash, a report, a sharp cry.  I sprang forward only to fall headlong over a dead body; but in that flash I had seen the hand grasping the revolver, and there was a scar on the back of it, a very peculiar scar.  It chanced I had the evening previous slightly quarrelled with the officer who was killed; I was the only person known to be near at the time he was shot; certain other circumstantial evidence was dug up, while Slavin and one other—­no, it was not you—­gave some damaging, manufactured testimony against me.  As a result I was held guilty of murder in the second degree, dismissed the army in disgrace, and sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment.  So, you see, it was not exactly you I have been hunting, Murphy,—­it was a scar.”

Murphy’s face was distorted into a hideous grin.  “I notice you bear exactly that kind of a scar, my man, and you spoke last night as if you had some recollection of the case.”

The mocking grin expanded; into the husky voice crept a snarl of defiance, for now Murphy’s courage had come back—­he was fronting flesh and blood.  “Oh, stop preachin’—­an’ shoot—­an’ be damned ter ye!”

“You do me a grave injustice, Murphy.  In the first place, I do not possess the nature of an Indian, and am not out for revenge.  Your slashing at me down in Glencaid has n’t left so much as a sting behind.  It’s completely blotted out, forgotten.  I haven’t the slightest desire to kill you, man; but I do want to clear my name of the stain of that crime.  I want you to tell the whole truth about that night’s work at Bethune; and when you have done so, you can go.  I ’ll never lay a finger on you; you can go where you please.”

“Bah!—­ye ain’t got no proof—­agin me—­’sides, the case is closed—­it can’t be opened agin—­by law.”

“You devil!  I ’d be perfectly justified in killing you,” exclaimed Hampton, savagely.

Murphy stared at him stupidly, the cunning of incipient insanity in his eyes.  “En’ whar—­do ye expect—­me ter say—­all this, pervidin’, of course—­I wus fule ’nough—­ter do it?”

“Up yonder before Custer and the officers of the Seventh, when we get in.”

“They’d nab me—­likely.”

“Now, see here, you say it is impossible for them to touch you, because the case is closed legally.  Now, you do not care very much for the opinion of others, while from every other standpoint you feel perfectly safe.  But I ’ve had to suffer for your crime, Murphy, suffer for fifteen years, ten of them behind stone walls; and there are others who have suffered with me.  It has cost me love, home, all that a man holds dear.  I ’ve borne this punishment for you, paid the penalty of your act to the full satisfaction of the law.  The very least you can do in ordinary decency is to speak the truth now.  It will not hurt you, but it will lift me out of hell.”