Mansell lay staring straight up at the roof. And as the other watched him he felt that some sort of struggle was going on in his slowly moving mind. Twice his lips moved as though about to speak, but for a long time no sound came from them. The lumberman felt extreme pity for him. He had forgotten that this man had so nearly ruined him, so nearly caused his death. He only saw before him a dimly flickering life, a life every moment threatening to die out. He knew how warped had been that life, how worthless from a purely human point of view, but he felt that it was as precious in the sight of One as that of the veriest saint. He racked his thoughts for some way to comfort those last dread moments.
Presently the dying man's head turned slightly toward him.
"I'm goin', boss," he said with a gasp. "It's gettin' up—the cold."
"Will you have—brandy?"
The lighting of the man's eyes made a verbal answer unnecessary. Dave gave him nearly half a tumbler, and his ebbing life flickered up again like a dying candle flame.
"The Doc said you wus hurt bad, boss. I heard him. I'm sorry—real miser'ble sorry—now."
"Now?"
"Yep—y' see I'm—goin'."
"Ah."
"I'm kind o' glad ther' ain't no passon around. Guess ther's a heap I wouldn't 'a' said to him."