Carter struggled to his feet, but a terrible attack of coughing seized him, and he sank back exhausted. The handkerchief which he held to his mouth was red with blood.
Sandy stretched him out on the snow, where he lay for a while with closed eyes. He was very white, and his lips twitched convulsively.
A vehicle passed out the road, and Sandy started up. He must take some decisive step at once. The men were probably waiting in the square for him now. He must stop them at any cost.
Carter opened his eyes, and the terror returned to them.
"Don't give me up, Kilday!" he cried, trying to rise. "I'll pay you anything you ask. It was the drink. I didn't know what I was doing. For the Lord's sake, don't
give me up! I haven't long to live at best. I can't disgrace the family. I—I am the last of the line—last Nelson—" His voice was high and uncontrolled, and his eyes were glassy and fixed.
Sandy stood before him in an agony of indecision. He had fought it out with himself there in his bedroom, and all personal considerations were swept from his mind. All he wanted now was to do right. But what was right? He groped blindly about in the darkness of his soul, and no guiding light showed him the way.
With a groan, he knotted his fingers together and prayed the first real prayer his heart had ever uttered. It was wordless and formless, just an inarticulate cry for help in the hour of need.
The answer came when he looked again at Carter. Something in the frenzied face brought a sudden recollection to his mind.
"We can't judge him by usual standards; he's bearing the sins of his fathers. We have to look on men like that as we do on