But one further sign was there of its mighty passing—a ragged rent a foot square driven through the very wall of the house within the vault.
And here a thin shaft of light came in and fell, like the focus of an awful eye, full upon the miniature where it lay nailed, face upward, upon the axle—fell, also, upon that empty niche in the brickwork where once had stood the treasure for which Jason had given his life.
I turned to the shattered man, leaned over him, touched him. He gave a gasp of agony and opened his eyes. The white stare of horror was in them and the blood ran faster from his mouth.
“Water!” he cried, with a dry, clacking sound in his throat.
I hurried from the room, although he called after me feebly not to leave him, drew a jugful from the tap in the kitchen and returned. I heard no sound in the house. A glimmer of flood came in through the gaping door to the yard. No immediate help was possible in the rising of that direful morning after the storm. I was alone with my many dead.
I put the jug to his lips and he sucked down a long, gluttonous draught. Then he looked at me with eager inquiry breaking through his mortal torment.
“My chest is all broken in,” he said, straining out his voice in bitter anguish. “When I move the end will come. Quick!—you said something—at the last moment—what was it?”
“That I believed it was your son you sent to his death down there.”
“I have no son. Once—yes—but he died—was poisoned—or drowned.”
“Oh! God forgive this man!” I cried, lifting my face in terror, and in that sick moment inspiration, I think, was given me.