|Newspaper Title||The Maitland Weekly Mercury (NSW : 1892-1931)|
|Trove Title||The Gold Seekers|
THE GOLD SEEKERS.
CHAPTER Y.— ( Continued .)
' That is just what I can't tell yon. He met some friend at the Internation Hotel,, in Cape Town, and was going up country with tliem, but where I don't know.' The look of interest faded from the lawyer's face. '
' Ah, just so ! . After a pause he added : 'Were you alone with Mr. Beausire ?' 'Yes.' 'Humph !' 'But the manager of the International Hotel will be able to state that I was staying there ofi and on for nearly three weeks, and Lowe was up here at Mrs. Jardiner's all the ? 'time.' ' How do you know that' said the laywer, quickly. ' Because he told me that he was going to do so.' ' You don't know, then, that he only came up here about eight or nine days before the murder was committed, and only stayed foiir days, and then came back again on the day of the murder ?' ' No,' answered Ivor. 'Ah, well, that is important! Can you remember exactly on what day you left Cape Town first?' ' Yes ; I can tell you exactly.' He then enumerated the days, and the law yer said : 'Exactly. Allowing for travelling, that would put you in Kimberly just about the time that Lowe arrived, and back again in Capo Town when he was absent.' ' But the manager of the International can give the exact dates of my stay ; and since the murder was committed, some days .before I camc here, why did they not arrest me in Cape Town ?' ' Because they knew perfectly well that you couldn't get to Cape Town by any other way except through Hopetown or De Aarby rail, and it would take you weeks to get down there any other way ; so they sent detectives out east and west and up into the Transvaal, and your description is up in every port along the east coast, and in every town between here and Port Elizabeth. They had the telegrams on at Hopetown, and detectives at De Aar as | well, but I suppose it never entered their thick skulls that their man might be going north just as well as south. Anyway, you got here, and I don't think they gave you much law when you did land.' 'You still seem under the impression that I am Lowe ?' ' I have agreed, for the sake of argument, io consider you as not being Lowe.' ' Well, what measures do you propose to . take in the matter ? I have 'told you the exact truth.' The lawyer eyed Ivor narrowly for a time and then said : ' As I told you, if I take up this case, I shall probably lose all my practice here, for the name of Lowe stinks in the nostrils of . every one in Kimberley.' ~ I ' Do you mean to tell me,' said Ivor in dignantly, ' that a man can't get fair play oven on trial for his life ?' 'You are not in England, I must repeat. My life wouldn't be worth living here if I got you off, and if I don't, I shall be shunned for having mixed myself up in the defence of a very ugly job.' The lawyer was silent, and Ivor, waiting 1 for him to speak again fo_r some moments, at length said, in an inquiring tone : 'Well?' 'Well, I'll do it on the following terms If you give me a promissory note for five thousand pounds, payable three weeks hence, whether you swing or not, I'll take up the case and do my utmost for you. If not — ' Ivor, who for an instant had been com pletely stunned by the suggestion, interrupted him, and said, quietly : ' You have mistaken your profession, sir. If I had five thousand pounds, which I haven't — nor even fivo hundred pounds — I would not offer a penny to a-man who had so i forgotten the honorable calling to which he by ; some_ mishap belongs. I wish you good ?morning, sir.' With this Ivor turned his back. The lawyer, somewhat crestfallen, shrug ged his shoulders, and the door closed on Ivor and, to all appearance, on hope at the same time.
CHAPTER VI. IH E L A S T . C HA SCI,. Two more days pased, and Ivor came to tho ? conclusion that no one could be found to take . up his case. This apparent indifference to human life struck him as strange. As soon as peoplo felt certain that Lowe had committed 'the crime they had no other desire than that he ' Should pay tho plenty. Ivor's sole defence , — that ho was not Lowe — for he saw that his chances of proving an alibi were really very ; slight if Beausire could not be found — was ? treated merely aa a joke. He now saw that ?Lowe had had 'exact information of all his movements while he was in Cape Town, and had planned his action so as to make it appear ?practically certain that his movements and Ivor s were identical. The two Jewesses, who ??were Lowe's sisters, had, as a matter of fact stayed at the International 'Hotel without Ivor s knowledge during tho whole time which . 6 BPe^ ^re, and had, by careful shadow ing and eavesdropping on favorable opportu ltaes, found out his plans in advance. When I£ y, made themselves quite certain of Tst;m,ation for each day, they had L , 8,raI ecl }° Lowe in cipher, and he had fcetad accordingly. He had stayed within It fKn°T ' ^ Kimberley as long as Ivor was f '0 -International, and had only gone into
Kimberley when Ivor was away from Cape Town. The girls had' instructions to leave by the Castle boat, by which they travelled home to England, as by that time Lowe would bo able to transact his business. Fortune had played into his hands in a way for which ho could scarcely have hoped. On leaving Eng land, he had mado up his mind to effect one final grand coup, and then leave South Africa alone and exorcise his genius in a newer — and consequently safer — field. Africa was grad ually becoming ' too hot to hold him,' as tho saying is, and the two or three exceedingly narrow escapes which he had already had warned him that the ' once too often' was very near at hand. His meeting with Ivor on board the ship supplied him with all the necessary material for his plot at one sweep. In an instant he saw his way through any difficulty that might' arise. Everything was in his favour. - Hero was a man so faultlessly resembling him that none but the closest of intimate friends could detect tho difference between them. Lowe htid no friends in Africa, nor, indeed, anywhere else ; he had accomplices whose interests were bonnd up, in a minor degree, with his own. Ivor was green, ignorant to tho last possi bility, of the world ; an excellent specimen of the ordinary 'Varsity man who thinks that at Oxford or Cambridge all that is worth know ing of the world has been learned — one of those true island-bred Englishmen who know nothing of the greater England which reaches to the four corners of the- earth. Had it been to his interest, Lowe would unhesitatingly have misled Ivor in all the in formation which ho gave him. As it was, what he had told him about the diamond fields had been absolutely true. He was eager to gain Ivor's confidence and good will. When he knew that Ivor was going to stay at Cape Town, he felt perfectly safe, and made his arrangements with his sisters accordingly. As to what shape his great coup would take he was undecided at first ; he intended fraud, but hoped to be able to avoid murder — not that murder, in itself, repelled him in any way, but he felt that the consequences of murder would always remain unpleasant, unless by good fortune Ivor were summarily hanged for it. When Ivor was away at Wynberg, Lowe went up to Kimberley and thought out his plans very carefully, and, after long debate with himself, elected the attack on the road from the Floors as the safest method of attain ing his object. He had not calculated on a witness, however, nor, indeed, did he know that that witness had seen his face, a fact which helped him materially in his flight. He knew the country all round Kimberley as well as any man in the place, and trusted to the darkness and his knowledge of the country to make good his escape. As we know, he headed northward, and was never seen by any one who knew him personally in Africa again. Ivor waited three days before any one came to him who was willing to take up his caSe. On the evening of the third day since his interview with his previous would-be counsel, a man was ushered into his cell, who an nounced himself willing to defend him. Ivor surveyed him with, interest. He was a short, -, thick-set Irishman, with a profusion of thick, red hair, red whiskers and a scrubby, red moustache.' His eyes were of a faint, bleary, watery blue, and his hands, which were dirty, shook in a manner which was painful to see. 'You are a lawyer ?' said Ivor, in a polite tone of enquiry. ' I am a qualified lawyer, and am prepared to defend your case,' answered his visitor, in a thick, liusky voice, with a soft Irish brogue. He spoke slowly, as though thinking out each word before letting it fall from his tongue. ' Have yon any stipulation to make as to the fee which you expect ?'
and he smiled a3 he answered, slowly : | 'Perhaps it would be as well if we came to some understanding first.' Ivor was angry, but he knew that this was almost certainly hislast chance, so he restrain ed himself, and said, quietly : ' I am a very poor man and can onjy offer you a small sum.' ? The Irishman's face fell, and after a pause he said: ' You can hardly expect a man to under take an unpopular case like this for noth ing.' . ? ? * ' No, certainly not,' said Ivor, ' but I may as well come to the point at once. If you gain my acquittal I am willing to pay you sev enty-five pounds ; if I am condemned I will pay you twenty-five pounds. The governor of the jail has my -money ; but that matter car: be arranged easily enough.' The Irishman again paused, and Ivor, in his tense anxiety, was on the point of raising his offer for acquittal to one hundred pounds, when the Irishman slowly answered : ' I will do it on those terms.' And then, as though'he was speaking 1 6 himself : ' After all, twenty-five pounds is better than noth ing.' Ivor heard his muttered remarks, and found little comfort in it. seeino- that 111 a nnn linn a
of lifo lmng upon a mau who obviously be lieved him guilty. ' _ However, the time was passing on. In little more than a week he would be tried, and there was much to be done. Tlie Irishman listened listlessly to Ivor's tale until he mentioned that Beausire had been with him during his expeditions to Wynberg and Stellenbosch, when the little man's sodden face brightened for an instant, and he asked, quickly : ' W here is this Beausire now?' At Ivor's answer his face resumed its stupid appearance once more, and Ivor, with a continually sinking heart, finished his story. There was a pause -lasting some minutes, during which the Irishman was thinking, or pretended to be 'thinking. , ? In Ivor's eyes a look of hungry eagerness betokened the great mental excitement under which he laboured. He knew that his sole hope of life lay in this fuddled sot before him, and the desiro of life grew stronger as the prospect of losing it approached more near. It now struck him for tho first timo on lioiv exceedingly slender a thread his chance of acquittal depended, pad it was doubly galling to know that it was for no noble purpose that his lifo was to be sacrificed. He had none of the satisfaction which the old martyrs must have felt ; how ever misguided thoy wore, at least they sacrificed themselves for a theory, whereas Ivor s life was to be given in order that a criminal might go free. He -was in reality acting in petto, and most unwillingly, the part ?wlncli hero of tho Great Tragedy under took of his own free will. Life is sweet to the aged, though they are maimed, and halt, and blind ; it is moro than sweet to the young and healthy — it is imperative. '
| In an agony of suspense Ivor waiteu ioi ' the Irishman to speak. His own impotence to help himself made him impatient oven of thought. At last the little lawyer looked up and said: ' There are only two possible loopholes of escapo and they both go to prove an alibi. ? 'Well?' said Ivor hurriedly. j ' If the manager of tho International can establish your identity, and prove that you could not by any means have been in Kimber ley at the time of the occurrence, then you are safe.' Ivor's face fell. Ho was very much afraid that the mahagor of the International could not do that, and in his absence from Cape Town ho had moved about from place to placo so hurriedly that ho could call no one to prove his whereabouts on any particular day. ' Your other chance is this man Beausire ; and unless ho can bring somo other proof be sides his, bare statement of the fact that you are not Lowe, I am afraid that his evidence won't go for much.' Ivor thought for a moment, and said : ' Unless he lias some letters of mine, which is .extremely doubtful. I know of no.othor proof he can bring forward.' Tho Irishman shrugged his shoulders and said : ' Well, I will do my best for you. I will subpoona the manager of tho International, and I will telegraph to this Beausire at tho hotel, and will tell the manager to forward it at once if he knows where Beausire is. Can you suggest anything I might say to Beausire ?' Ivor thought for a moment, and then an swered : ' You might frame the telegram in this way : ' Accused of murder falsely. Come at once. Bring anything by which you can establish my identity.' ' That will do,' added Ivor, as the Irish man write it down on a piece of paper. ' Now I must have some .money for this and for the expenses of the manager of the International.' 'You will have to apply to the governor of the prison for that. He has my money. I will write a note to that effect. I wonder if any one knows Lowe's handwriting here ?' 'Why ?' said the Irishman. ' Because that would be a strong point in my favour.' The Irislimau smiled as he answered : ' There are no handwriting experts here, and I am afraid it might suggest itself to the jury that it is possible to feign handwriting.' ' I will do my best for you,' said the lawyer as he left the cell. ' The door closed on him, and Ivor neither saw nor 'heard anything of him until he saw him in court on the day of his trial. As the day of the trial drew near, and Ivor had no communication from the outer world, his anxiety grew too strong for him, and he gradually relapsed into a state of almost hopeless despair. The fateful day at last dawned, and Ivor, glancing eagerly at his counsel, gathered no encouragement from the lack-lustre eye of the little Irishman. He had subpoenaed the manager of the In ternational Hotel, and had telegraphed to Beausire, as Ivor wished; he then left for Beaconsfield, and there stayed in a condition of constant intoxication until the day before tho trial. He had thought to himself that he might just as well anticipate his twenty-five pounds as not. Of the seventy- five pounds he never for a moment had any expectation. His appearance in court was anything but accnvmrr. Hia rod hair was imbviisbfirl. liia
face was blotched and unpleasant to look upon ; he had not shaved for a week, and his eyes were inflamed to an alarming degree. Ivor's heart sank within him as he surveyed his counsel's appearance. The man did not appear to be obtrusively sober now, and he steadied himself by holding the table in front of him as he rose to address the Court. The case was the. essence of simplicity. The eye-witness to the crime related his evi dence in exactly the same way as he had done previously, nor could he be shaken in any way by the disconnected, maundering cross examination which lie underwent at the hands of Ivor's counsel. . 1 The court room was packed to suffocation and the jury showed an entire absence of in terest in the proceedings. They had made up their mind long before coming into court, and wore, one and all, , an air of boredom at the entirely unnecessary prolongation of the case. Ivor's heart beat high when the sole wit ness for the defence, the manager of tho In ternational Hotel, stopped into the witness box. Here, at least, was hope. The man could not fail to recognise him as the visitor of a fortniglit ago. ? The manager gave his evidence in an injured tone of voice, as who should say : ' I wonder what the deuce they have brought a man all the way from Cape Town to give evidence in a tin pot case like this for ?' His long journey in the train, at a time of year when his presence in Cape Town was particularly necessary, had not .improved a naturally acid temper. 'Yes, the prisoner had certainly stayed in his hotel on tho dates mentioned,' Ivor's face brightened. ' Did not know where he had been in the intervals. Did not think it his business to find out where his customers were going. As soon as they were across the threshold of the hotel — having paid their bills — he had no further interest in them. Gent of the name of Beausire had seemed to be intimate with him ; gent had left the hotel the day after prisoner, and he had not heard of him since. Believed him to be on a shooting expedition. Gent had left a portmauteau to be forwarded when he should write for it. Yes, gent had paid his bill like a gent.' ^ Again the utter indifference of all con cerned mado Ivor's blood boil.' It 'might have been a salvage case in the Admiralty courts at homo for all the interest any one seomed to take in tho matter. ' Had witness , known prisoner at the bar previous to his seeing him a fortnight ago ?' ' Yes,' answered the manager, airily ; and Ivor's spirits again fell to zero. ' I know him well by sight ; the prisoner has often stayed at tho hotel.' Ivor's case here broke down utterly, and he could not repress a faint groan as he heard tho manager's answer. Tlie rest was a natural sequence. ' Do you know tho prisoner's name ?' ' Yes ; Moses Lowe.' 'But you said he was registered, as Ivor Gwynno.' ? The man shrugged his shoulders.
'I don't bother myself about customers' names : so long as they pay their bills and behave, they may register themselves as the Grand Mogul or Julius Cresar for all I carc ; but that doesn't make the prisoner's name any the less Moses Lowo.' The Judgo addressed the jury, who looked at him in a condescending manner, as though to say, ' Pray don't exert yourself unnecess arily ; wo know our duty this timo.' They retired for five minutes for form's sake, and came back with the only possible verdict. There was a shout of exultation in tho court, and Ivor left it with the knowledge that lie had but ten more days to live.
CHAPTER VII. UNDER SENTENCE OP DEATH. For the' first two days after Ivor had been condemned to death he sat in his cell, in a dull, hopeless state of apathy. He tried to think that perhaps, after all, ho was in no uncom mon position — a considerable percentage of innocent men must annually suffor under a code of laws which admits condemnation on circumstantial evidence alone ; yet he had not even this consolation. He was condemned of murder on tho testimony of an eye-witness whose position was immovable. This was, indeed, the irony of fate. An almost irresis tible desire to laugh loud and wildly came over him at timos when he realized the gross ab surdity of his position. ' As the days passed on and the hour of his execution drew nigh, he became fretful and angry that such injustice could bo allowed to be perpetrated, with never a voice raised to say the contrary. Yet he must die. Of that there was no question. Even if Beausire did appear — which he now scai'cely dared hope — it would be doubtful whether his evidence would bear against the intensely strong feeling against Ivor — in his character of Lowo. The days wore on, and Ivor passed his time in writing to Gwen. Here was the true bit terness of death. That which there was always a possibility of his attaining, so long as he should b-5 alive, presented itself to him, now that he was about to die, with an allurement which was almost maddening. He filled page on page of paper with the impassioned' outpourings of a lover who knew that his advances would never be re jected, for he who had written them would be dead before thoy reached his mistress. He asked a hypothftical question which could never bo answered in this world, yet one which would let Gwen know that his only thoughts 1 ? --C T. ? TT~ -3-1 ? X„JI 1 ? ?
miu wutfii ui. iiur. xxv uuuuwiu iuug wiwun himself as to whether ho was justified in pos sibly awakening in her heart a love for a man who could never return it, and he came to the conclusion that it was perhaps only fair to her to let her know that her care for him had not met with indifference. He wrote day after day, wondering all the time, in a vague .way, how it was that ho found it so easy to write unceasingly, when as a rule, the regulation four sides of a sheet of note-paper presented a' space which it was a difficult matter to fill. Poor fellow ! He even attempted poetry, and concocted some doggerel verses on his present position and of his possible position, whose sole merit was their sincerity. What a blind dolt he had been all those yeai's during which he ' might have® enjoyed the sweets of being in love ! He had never asked himself if he was in love with Gweri. He was content to idle away the day with her, feeling dull in her absence and placidly happy in her presence. Never for one moment had blood pulsed quicker at her approach. He had never known a lover's rapture at the sight of his mistress, at the touch of her soft hand, at the pressure of her lips upon his own. He had merely felt a strange blank in his life for a day or two when he had left her for any length of time, which he had never taken the trouble to explain away. Now, in his despair, he cursed himself for the opportunities which he had allowed to pass unheeded — now, when he would count his life well lost if but for a moment he eould hold his beloved in his arms. - The separation from her for. an indefinite time had first awakened in him the knowledge that he loved her, and as hour by hour the distance between them grew greater, the stronger grew his love. His first act on landing was to writeher a long letter, breathing in every line the love which lie had dared not openly express, and now his last act on earth would be to tell her of his dead hope. As always in life, that which he had wanted had not come at the right moment. Most men attain a definite object in life at some time or other, but almost, nnvrv.. n*.
they want it. Everything worth having seems to come at a time when the power of thoroughly enjoying it has passed, or when one is incapable of thoroughly appreciating one's good fortune. ? ° Poor Ivor! He wrote to Gwen. That was all that was loft for him to do. He had missed his opportunity, when it lay ready to his hand, and now all that he could do was to say that he was uuaware that the opportunity ever ex isted. He thoroughly resented the visits of the prison chaplain. The prison chaplain came to him with the full conviction that he was a murderer, and that he ought to make his peace with God on earth before entering His pres ence. It was in vain that Ivor told hint that he was labouring under a vast mistake ; that he had no murder, nor, in fact, any particular sin of any magnitude for which to ask pardon. He objected to being prayed for as though he were one cf the most abandoned of the human race. He said that it was derogatory to his self-respect, and would be obliged if tho chap lain would confine his efforts to the judge and jui'y. . „„„ 1 ? _j. XI.. I. ? T.
nuo TOmiiBU ut LUIS irivoilty and flippancy at such a crisis, and reminded Ivor over and over again of the solemnity of the occasion. Ivor said -there was little necessity to remind him of the solemnity of the occasion, no one was more alive to the fact than ho was ; but that it did not add to his cheerfulness to bo prayed for because of another man's in iquity. The chaplain hoped that Ivor's heart would be softened. Ivor didn't think it was necessary, as he was in a confoundedly soft state of mind at tho moment! The chaplain hoped that repentance would come, even on tho scaffold. Ivor had no notion of repenting a crime he had never committed. The chaplain begged him to think of those who were near and dear to him. Ivor had been thinking of nothing else for the last week, and would be glad if tho chap lain would mind his own business ; that ho wanted no meddling parson coming to inter rupt liis thoughts When he had buta few days to liyo. ' ;
Tho chaplain thought that it would be as well to retire until the prisoner was in a moro amenable frame of mind. Ivor was exceedingly glad to hear him say so, as itTVould save him the trouble of kicking the chaplain out of the door, and that the chaplain might save himself the trouble of calling again, unless he was anxious to be ' man-handled.' Upon this the chaplain retired, and Ivor, after pacing up and down tho cell for somo moments, burst into a loud, bitter laugh. Then he said to himself : ' After all, it is the fellow's business, aud he thinks I am a murderer. I was angry and confoundedly rude to him. I must apologize to the man when I get — ' Here his words died on his lips. 'When I get out.' ? That woulcl.be when he stepped from his cell to the scaffold. Even now, within three days of his death, hope was not dead, nor did he suppose it would die, until the rope was round his neck ancl; he heard tho, chaplain begin to read the burial Bcrvice. It was only during his trial, when he saw all possibility of acquittal gradually disappear,, that the horror of death bad come upon him. So long as there had been any reasonable ground for hope that lie might not be con demned, the fear of death was strong. , Now that there was no real hope, only that vague shadow of hope which haunts every man every day of his life, he could face death calmly. The hope that was left to him was merely that indefinable yearning which is ever present to every one that each new day may bring that vague something which would make life complete, be it wealth or power, or love | or fame — in fact, the desire of life as it ought, i according to our light, to be, and not as it actually obtains. | As it was, tho actual fate to which he was ordained had -lost its terror. He could face death now with a bold countenance, as any other English gentleman could. There merely rankled in his mind a feeling of irritability because of the injustice of his position. . On the afternoon of the day previous to that fixed for his execution he allowed the tho chaplain to visit him again. As soon as he entered, Ivor began :
j. merely wiauuu tu itpuiugiZiU tu e-ilj for being so rude to you on the last occasion on which you came. The fact of the matter was, I was rather upset at one or two things, and we were at cross-purposes.' ' : The chaplain accepted the apology, and be gan to say someth'ng about' repentance eyen on the very eve of death being as fully recog nized as' — when Ivor held up his hand 'and begged him not to proceed. ? ? ' , ' If you please, don't say anything more on that point. I was in solemn earnest as regards the substance of what I said to you on your last visit. I merely wish to apologize to you for the manner in which it was said.' The chaplain bowed and was silent. ' If, however,' continued Ivor, ' you would consent to do me a favor, I should feel obliged to you.' The chaplain would do it with pleasure. ' I have here two packets. One is a letter — rather-bulky, as you see. The other is a note of my small belongings, and a few direc tions as to how I wish them disposed of Would you bo good enough to post the letter, and open the other little document after the sentence has been carried out'?' ' Certainly,' said the chaplain. ' After the sentence has been carried out ; on no account before.' ' The claaplain would give his word not to post the letter or open the document until after the sentence had been carried out. 'I am sure I am vei'v much obliged to you,' said Ivor; ' And now ; good-bye. I have to thank you for the trouble you have taken, and am sorry -that our ideas do not coincide as they might.' Ivor held out his hand, and the chaplain took it, and said : ' Is there absolutely nothing I can do for you-? Perhaps tho fact of your being a Jew — ' ...' I am a Christian, thank yon, and there is absolutely nothing further you can do for me, Good-bye.' The chaplian sighed, turned on his heel, and left the cell. . When he had gone, Ivor began to writo again, and the chaplain would have a second packet to post to Gwen in the morning. He threw himself on to his pallet early in the evening, little expecting to get any sleep, but he slept like the child until dawn. He woke with a start, having dreamed in the second before consciousness actually re turned that he was listening to the tolling of his own death-knell. Ho sat up on his pallet, and hoard the tones of the prison boll at the gates jangling in the still air! . They had como for him — -tho grey dawn was peering in through liis narrow window. He stood up and passed his hand through his hair, and a slight shiver went over hia frame. Tho morning air was chilly, ho thought. Soon he heard footsteps advancing along tho passage ; they were come to pinion him. He stood up in tho middle of tho cell and breathed a short prayer, and then waited. Surely they had como very early for him — he had understood that ho was to bo hanged at eight o'clock, and it could not be nearly so late as that. The footsteps stopped at tho door of his coll. He clenched his hands tight, and an ex presson of hard determination spread over his face. Ho could face death. Tho mere mechanical severance of body from bouI was nothing. That was a mere physical twinge
of pain. Tho teiiso agony of tho moment when he knew that hope was at last dead, was more bitter than death. Tho door opened, and Ivor leaped, with a shout, to tho back' of the cell. Those who entered wore no prison warders, but the Judge, the governor of the prison and Beausire. Beausire ran at Ivor and wrung his hand. ' A near thing, old chap — a terribly near thing,' he said. Ivor did not answer ; he tried to speak, and then turned to his pallet, sat down on it and wept. (To bo continued.')