Again Phelps stared at him hard while the light died gradually out of his eyes. His hands slipped down Sargent's arms slowly until one stopped suddenly on the pistol the jailer had thrust into his pocket. In a second he had both arms about Sargent, and had grabbed the pistol in his hand.
"So you's not afeard of me, eh, you damn liar. Yet you carry this!" holding up the pistol for inspection in the candle light. "Six chambers and all of 'em loaded," he ended, breaking the gun back into place.
"It is not mine. The jailer put it in my pocket as I entered here. I never carried one in my life."
Phelps looked at him doubtfully. "Well—I believe you," he said thoughtfully. "But I'm glad you brought it. It's a damn good thing you did!"
Sargent started. "What do you mean?"
"Never you mind—I'll tell you later." He laid the pistol well out of Sargent's reach and came back before him, folding his arms, and looking down on him with a new expression—a look that seemed to express a certain contentment. "D'you know why I sent for you? I wanted to thank you."
Sargent's lip quivered. "For sentencing you?"
"No—for opening my eyes."
Sargent looked up and saw the huge man of fifty years standing before him, suddenly timid, with his great, roughened hand outstretched.
"You ain't afeard to take it—is you? It's jest the hand of a man who's goin' to die soon. It can't do you no harm and it'll do me a mighty lot of good."