For some minutes Farwell had been speaking like a man distraught by fever. He had forgotten the listener across the table; he was remembering aloud at last, with no fear of consequences. He did not look at Ledyard, and when he spoke again it was in a calmer tone.
"It was on the last run—that I was supposed to have drowned. Well, I did die; at least something in me died. I lost breath, consciousness, and when I came to I was a poor, broken thing not worth turning the hounds on. I'm done for as far as the past's concerned. I'm a different man—not a reformed one! God knows I never played that rôle. I'm another man. I took what I could to keep me from insanity. I had to do something to occupy my time. That's why I've taught these poor little devils; it wasn't for them, it was for me; and when they grew to like me and trust me—I was grateful. Grateful for even that!"
Ledyard was holding the white, drawn face by his merciless eyes. So he looked when a particularly interesting subject lay under his knife and he was all surgeon—no man.
"But you're not equal to going back to the States without being hauled there—and taking your medicine?" he asked calmly.
"No. I suppose in the final analysis all that justice demands is that I should be put out of the way—out of the way of harming others? Well, that's accomplished. I don't suppose your infernal ideas of justice claim that a man should be hounded beyond death, and every chance for right living be barred from him? If a poor devil ever can expatiate his sin and try to live a decent life, why shouldn't he be given the opportunity here and now instead of in some mythical place among creatures of one's fancy?"
"You didn't argue that way when you shot Charles Martin down, did you? He was my friend; he had to—take his medicine!" Ledyard almost snarled out these words. "He may have deserved his punishment for the lapses of his life—but you were not the one to deal it. His family demand and should have justice for him—I mean to see that they shall. Martin, for all his folly was a genius, and gave to the world his toll of service. Why should you, who gave nothing, escape at his expense?"
"Martin was no better, no worse, than I. He and I lived on the same plane then; had the same interests. Had I not killed him, he would have killed me. He swore that."
"But you took him—at a disadvantage, like the damned——" Ledyard paused; he was losing his self-control. The calm, living face across the table enraged him.
"I met him in the open; I did not know he was unarmed. I drew my pistol in full view. A week before he had done the same; I escaped. No one believed that when I told it at the trial. I had no witnesses; he had many when I took my revenge."
"Who could believe you? What was your life compared with his?"