The Sin That Was His

by Frank L. Packard

“Come away!” he said hoarsely. “In the name of God, come away!”

“Ah, you hear it now!”—the condemned man drew in his arm, until his fingers clawed and picked at the bars. “They will not stop, and it is because I cannot remember—because I cannot remember—here—here—here”—he swung clear of the window—and suddenly raising his clenched fists began to beat with almost maniacal fury at his temples. “If I could remember, they would stop—they would——”

“Henri! My son!” Raymond cried out sharply—and caught at the other's hands. A crimson drop had oozed from the man's bruised skin, and now was trickling down the colourless, working face. “You do not know what you are doing! Listen to me! Listen! Let me go!”—the man wrenched and fought furiously to break Raymond's hold. “They will not stop out there—they are hammering—don't you hear them hammering—and it is because I—I——” The snarl, the fury in the voice was suddenly a sob. The man was like a child again, helpless, stricken, chidden; and as Raymond's hands unlocked, the man reached out his arms and put them around Raymond's neck, and hid his face upon Raymond's shoulder. “Forgive me, father—forgive me!” he pleaded brokenly. “Forgive me—it is sometimes more than I can bear.”

Raymond's arms mechanically tightened around the shaking shoulders; and mechanically he drew the other slowly back to the cot. Something was gnawing at his soul until his soul grew sick and faint. Hell shrieked its abominable approval in his ears, as he sat down upon the cot still holding the other—and shrieked the louder, until the cell seemed to ring and ring again with its unholy mirth, as the man pressed his lips to the crucifix on Raymond's breast.

“Father, I do not want to die”—the man spoke brokenly again. “They say I killed a man. How could I have killed a man, father? See”—he straightened back, and held out both his hands before Raymond's eyes—“see, father, surely these hands have never harmed any one. I cannot remember—I do not remember anything they say I did. Surely if I could remember, I could make them know that I am innocent. But I cannot remember. Father, must I die because I cannot remember? Must I, father”—the man's face was gray with anguish. “I have prayed to God to make me remember, father, and—and He does not answer—He does not answer—and I hear only that hammering—and sometimes in the night there is something that tightens and tightens around my throat, and—and it is horrible. Father—Father François Aubert—tell them to have pity upon me—you believe that I am innocent, don't you—you believe, father—yes, yes!”—he clutched at Raymond's shoulders—“yes, yes, y°u believe—look into my eyes, look into my face—look, father—look——”

Look! Look into that face, look into those eyes! He could not look.

“My son, be still!”—the words were wrung in sudden agony from Raymond's lips.

He drew the other's head to his shoulder again, and held the other there—that he might not look—that the eyes and the face might be hidden from him. And the form in his arms shook with convulsive sobs, and clung to him, and called him by its own name, and called him friend—this stricken man who was to die—for whom he, Raymond, was building “it” out there under the shadow of the jail wall—and—and—God, he too could hear that hammering and—“Fool, remember Valérie!”

The sweat beads multiplied upon Raymond's forehead. His face was bloodless; his grip so tight upon the other that the man cried out, yet in turn but clung the closer. Yes, that voice was right—right—right! It was only that for the moment he was unnerved. It was this man's life for Valérie—this man's life for Valérie. It would only be a few days more, and then it would be over in a second, before even the man knew it—but with Valérie it would be for all of life, and there would be years and years—yes, yes, it was only that he had been unnerved for the instant—it was this man's life for Valérie—if he would give his own life, why shouldn't he give this man's—why shouldn't——

His brain, his mind, his thoughts seemed suddenly to be inert, to be held in some strangely numbed, yet fascinated suspension. He was staring at the shaft of sunlight that fought for its right against those iron bars to enter this place of death. He stared and stared at it—something—a face—seemed to be emerging slowly out of the sunlight, to be taking form just beyond, just outside those iron bars, to become framed in the gray, pitiless stone of the window slit, to be pressed against those iron bars, to be looking in.