"Let my trespasses be unforgiven, so that I may have vengeance for my son's murder."
John Barton lay on the ground as one dead.
When Mr. Carson had left the house, he leant against a railing to steady himself, for he was dizzy with agitation. He looked up to the calm, majestic depths of the heavens, and by-and-by the last words he had spoken returned upon him, as if they were being echoed through all that infinite space in tones of unutterable sorrow. He went homewards; not to the police-office. All night long, the archangel combated with the demon in his soul.
All night long, others watched by the bed of death. As morning dawned, Barton grew worse; his breathing seemed almost stopped. Jem had gone to the druggist's, and Mary cried out for assistance to raise her father.
A step, which was not Jem's, came up the stairs. Mr. Carson stood in the doorway. He raised up the powerless frame, and the departing soul looked out of the eyes with gratitude.
"Pray for us!" cried Mary, sinking on her knees.
"God be merciful to us sinners," was Mr. Carson's prayer. "Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us."
And when the words were said, John Barton lay a corpse in Mr. Carson's arms.
At the door of a long, low wooden house stands Mary, watching the return of her husband from his work.