"The end has come of sin, as of trouble. No matter." Then, with an awful solemnity, he added: "My soul is barren. It is already given over to the undying worm. I shall die to-morrow at sunrise."
"No man knows the day nor the hour—"
Hugh Ritson repeated, with a fearful emphasis, "I shall die as the sun rises on Sunday morning."
Parson Christian remained with him the weary night through. The wind moaned and howled outside. It licked the walls as with the tongues of serpents. The parson prayed fervently, but Hugh Ritson's voice never once rose with his. To and fro, to and fro, the dying man continued his direful walk. At one moment he paused and said with a ghastly smile, "This dying is an old story. It has been going on every day for six thousand years, and yet we find it as terrible as ever."
Toward three in the morning he threw open the shutters. The windows were still dark; it seemed as if the dawn were far away. "It is coming," he said calmly. "I knew it must come soon. Let us go out to meet it."
With infinite effort he pulled his ulster over his shoulders, put on his hat, and opened the door.
"Where are you going?" said the parson, and his voice broke.
"To the top of the fell."
"Why there?"
Hugh Ritson turned his heavy eyes upon him. "To see the new day dawn," he said, with an awful pathos.