He paused again; these words have been used hypocritically; but there was no hypocrisy in that voice—in those eyes then; the solemn, slow denunciation came with the full approval of the heart and reason. I could not contradict. I was silent. “Yes,” he repeated, “I have come to that—come down to that—to be a murderer—the lowest of all. I am the greatest sinner in the world; and for two days I have been looking at God, and God has been looking at me. Face to face—with that murdered child, and all my other crimes between us—we have been viewing each other. Is it any wonder I should tell you I have been mad?”
“You may be facing God,” I said, slowly then. “You may be facing God with all your sins; but you must remember one thing: you, a sinner, are facing a God who died for such as you.”
I don’t know why I said these words; they seemed to be sent to me. I appeared to be speaking outside myself.
“Thank you,” said Owen. Then he covered his face, and was silent for a quarter of an hour; and in that interval of quiet, the knowledge came to me that this penitent, broken man—this agonised, stricken soul, was nearer, far nearer to God than I was. At the end of a quarter of an hour, Owen rose to his feet.
“I heard of the mine accident at a roadside inn, this afternoon; that brought me home. I cannot understand how the water burst in. I had no idea there was an accumulation of water in Pride’s Pit. I thought it was properly pumped away—but, there! I should have known. I am going down into the mine at once. I know David is in the mine.”
“Owen,” I said, suddenly remembering, “David sent you that.” I put the little note, which David had written, into his hands.
He read it, then threw it, open, on the table.
The hard look was gone from his eyes—they were glistening.
“Farewell, dear, I am going to my duty. God helping me, I will save David or die.”
Before I could say a word, he was out of the house; before I could call to him, his footsteps had died away on the night air.