Ay, where he gave me up to God, just forty years before!
THE QUOD CORRESPONDENCE.
Harry Harson.
CHAPTER XXII.
It was not the failure of his plans, nor the dread of detection, which broke Rust down. He had been prepared for that, and had nerved himself to meet it; but it was a blow coming from a quarter where he had not dreamed of harm, and wounding him where alone he could feel a pang, that crushed him. There was something so abject in the prostration of that iron-willed man, who had often endured what would have wrung the very souls of other men, without exhibiting any other feeling than contempt, that for a moment awed even the hard man who had struck the blow. In proportion as Rust’s control over his emotions had been great, so now the reäction was terrible. He seemed paralyzed in body and mind. No cry escaped him, but his breath rattled as he drew it; his long hair hung loosely over his face, and upon the floor; his eyes were closed; his features livid and distorted; and but for his struggling breath, and the spasmodic jerking of his fingers, he seemed dead.
‘Lift him up, Bill,’ said Grosket, in a subdued tone. ‘It’s been too much for him. Who’d have thought he had a heart?’
Jones smiled grimly, as he said: ‘I’m glad you did it, Mr. Grosket. It was better than murdering him. He wasn’t afeard of dying. Is it a fit he’s got?’
Without waiting for a reply, he placed his arms under him and raised him up. Rust lay heavily against him, his head falling back, and his arms dangling at his side. They carried him to the bench, and placed him on it, Grosket standing behind him, and supporting his back.
‘I guess he’s done for,’ said Jones, pushing the hair from his face; ‘pity it wasn’t three days ago—that’s all.’