Again the judge buried his face in his hands.
“I know it, Solomon—I know it!” he moaned wretchedly.
“Price, you are still a man to be reckoned with. There's the boy; take your place for his sake and keep it—you can.”
“I will—by God, I will!” gasped the judge. “You hear me? You hear me, Solomon? By God's good help, I will!”
“You have the president's letter—I saw it,” said Mahaffy in a whisper.
“Yes!” cried the judge. “Solomon, the world is changing for us!”
“For me most of all,” murmured Mahaffy, and there was a bleak instant when the judge's ashen countenance held the full pathos of age and failure. “Remember your oath, Price,” gasped the dying man. A moment of silence succeeded. Mahaffy's eyes closed, then the heavy lids slid back. He looked up at the judge while the harsh lines of his sour old face softened wonderfully. “Kiss me, Price,” he whispered, and as the judge bent to touch him on the brow, the softened lines fixed themselves in death, while on his lips lingered a smile that was neither bitter nor sneering.
CHAPTER XXXV. A CRISIS AT THE COURT-HOUSE
In that bare upper room they had shared, the judge, crushed and broken, watched beside the bed on which the dead man lay; unconscious of the flight of time he sat with his head bowed in his hands, having scarcely altered his position since he begged those who carried Mahaffy up the narrow stairs to leave him alone with his friend.