Then the bolt was drawn, and a voice at once strange and familiar cried, "Come in, Parson Christian."
He had not called or spoken.
The parson entered. When his eyes fell on Hugh Ritson's face he shuddered as he had never shuddered before. Many a time he had seen death in a living face, but never anything like this. The livid cheeks were stony, the white lips were drawn hard, the somber eyes burned like a deep, slow fire, the yellow hands were gaunt and restless. There was despair on the contracted brow, but no repentance. And the enfeebled limbs trembled, but still shuffled on—on, on, on, through their longer journey than from Gabbatha to Golgotha. The very atmosphere of the room breathed of death.
"Let me pray with you," said the parson, softly, and without any other words, he went down on his knees.
"Ay, pray for me—pray for me; but you lose your labor; nothing can save me."
"Let us call on God," said the parson.
A bitter laugh broke from Hugh Ritson's lips.
"What! and take to him the dregs and rinsings of my life? No!"
"The blood of Christ has ransomed the world. It can save the worst sinner of us all, and turn away the heavy wrath of God."
Hugh Ritson broke again into a bitter laugh.