“Colonel Hallibut,
Respected Sir: I may never see you in life again. Mr. Smythe will explain. I am willing to die in fulfilling my duty to you, but, sir, I beg that you will not venture among the Bushwhackers. They have sworn to shoot you on sight and to burn your schooner if you sail her into the bay. The six hundred dollars you gave me toward leasing the timber was taken from me as I lay helpless among the ruffians who tried to kill me. It proved my salvation, for, as they fought among themselves for the money, I managed to crawl away. Good-by, sir, and if we never meet again on earth—but I cannot finish.
Yours,
An erring one
who has been led to the light,
Thomas Watson.”
The Colonel folded up the letter, pitched it into the coals, and sat down. He refilled his pipe, a half smile on his face. Then he turned to Smythe, whose features were working, and who was vainly trying to force a tear down his cheek.
“So you managed to convert poor dying Watson?” he observed. “You’ve led an erring one to the light, have you?”
“In my poor way, sir,” nodded Smythe, “I have.”
“Where does Watson want to be buried?” asked the Colonel gravely.