‘Why are you returned, Phil?’ he asked. It was too dark to make out more than the outline of the man’s head against the sky, but the sound of his shoeless feet, as he walked alongside, convinced Meadowes that Phil was there. ‘Why are you returned?’ he questioned again. There was no reply, then the man, with a sudden, quick movement, drew his sword and turned upon Meadowes, pinning him against the wall. He fell almost without a groan. The man knelt with one knee pressed down on Meadowes’ chest, as if to squeeze his shortening breaths out of him, and spoke loudly in his ear. ‘_I am Philip_,’ he said. Meadowes heard even through his clouding senses the high bell-clear voice. ‘Is it—— Merciful Lord! doth my Phil torment me for my sins? . . . his voice. . . . Ah, surely not Phil,’ he thought. ‘_I am Philip_,’ repeated the man, rising hastily; he dared not tarry even for the sweetness of revenge. ‘Philip, Philip!—Ah, undone, undone!’ murmured the dying man. He writhed over on the pavement as the weight of his adversary’s knee was lifted off him; pressed his hand against his side as the last agony seized him, and the spirit, driven so roughly from its dwelling, lingered for a second on the threshold and looked back. In that second fifty years were reviewed like one day: childhood at sweet Fairmeadowes among the fields, youth and manhood, war and love and treachery, and all the busyness of life, passed before him in a flash. One remembrance stood out with extraordinary clearness:—the memory of a prayer offered long ago in one of the old City churches—a strange, seemingly unanswered prayer. Here, late in time, was its bitter answer. And then this memory passed also, and one only thought remained—Philip. All this in a second’s time. In that second, as the murderer rose to his feet, the glimmer of a lantern fell into the pressing darkness, and a hand appeared out of the gloom, clutched, and held him. Meadowes did not see the light. His eyes were closed, but the one thought of Philip held possession of his brain. ‘_Run, Phil, run, lest this bring you to trouble_,’ he cried with his latest breath; the two struggling men could not choose but hear. The watchman let fall his lantern and they wrestled in the darkness, then with one great wrench the other freed himself, and flung aside his adversary, who fell heavily. It took him a moment to rise, and then he stood stupidly for a brief space to listen in what direction the murderer ran. But even the silent street scarcely echoed back the light footsteps of the man wearing no shoes, as he scudded away into the darkness. CHAPTER XXXI Carrie had sat up late that night waiting for Philip to come in, then she grew sleepy, went to bed, and fell asleep. But her sleep cannot have been very sound, for the heavy foot of the watch who passed in the street below, and the echo of his voice as he chanted out the hour, wakened her widely.