"Amber," said Rutton suddenly and very clearly, "you'll find a will in my despatch box. Doggott is to have all I possess. The emerald ring—the Token—I give to you."
"Yes, I—I—"
"Your hand…. Mine is cold? No? I fancied it was," said the man drowsily. And later: "Sophia. You will be kind to her, David?"
"On my faith!"
Rutton's fingers tightened cruelly upon his, then relaxed suddenly. He began to nod, his chin drooping toward his breast.
"The Gateway … the Bell…."
The words were no more than whispers dying on lips that stilled as they spoke. For a long time Amber sat unmoving, his fingers imprisoned in that quiet, cooling grasp, his thoughts astray in a black mist of mourning and bewilderment.
Through the hush of death the tin clock ticked on, placidly, monotonously, complacently. In the fireplace a charred log broke with a crash and a shower of live cinders.
Out of doors something made a circuit of the cabin, like a beast of the night, stealthy footsteps muffled by the snow: pad—pad—pad….
In the emerald ring on Amber's finger the deathless fire leaped and pulsed.