“Nothing—yes—late the same night I carried him back to where I thought he had come from—and that's all!”
The little strength Garth had left was wellnigh spent.
“Would you sign a paper saying this?” asked Rotha, bending over him.
“Ey, if there would be any good in it.”
“It might save the lives of father and Ralph; but your mother would need to witness it.”
“She will do that for me,” said Garth feebly. “It will be the last thing I'll ask of her. She will go herself and witness it.”
“Ey, ey,” sobbed the broken woman, who rocked herself before the fire.
Rotha took the pen and paper, and wrote, in a hand that betrayed her emotion,—
“This is to say that I, Joseph Garth, being near my end, yet knowing well the nature of my act, do confess to having committed the crime of killing the man known as James Wilson, for whose death Ralph Ray and Simeon Stagg stand condemned.”
“Can you sign it now, Joe?” asked Rotha, as tenderly as eagerly.