Night closed in, and still there came no answer to the old man's knock. When the sun had set the wind had risen. It threatened to be a tempestuous night. Toward ten o'clock Parson Christian arrived. He had wrestled long with his own heart as to what course it was his duty to take. He had come at last in answer to the banksman's summons, and now he knocked at the door. There was no answer. The wind was loud in the trees overhead, but he could hear the restless footfall within. He knocked again, and yet again. Then the bolt was drawn, and a voice at once strange and familiar cried, "Come in, Parson Christian." He had not called or spoken. The parson entered. When his eyes fell on Hugh Ritson's face he shuddered as he had never shuddered before. Many a time he had seen death in a living face, but never anything like this. The livid cheeks were stony, the white lips were drawn hard, the somber eyes burned like a deep, slow fire, the yellow hands were gaunt and restless. There was despair on the contracted brow, but no repentance. And the enfeebled limbs trembled, but still shuffled on--on, on, on, through their longer journey than from Gabbatha to Golgotha. The very atmosphere of the room breathed of death. "Let me pray with you," said the parson, softly, and without any other words, he went down on his knees. "Ay, pray for me--pray for me; but you lose your labor; nothing can save me." "Let us call on God," said the parson. A bitter laugh broke from Hugh Ritson's lips. "What! and take to him the dregs and rinsings of my life? No!" "The blood of Christ has ransomed the world. It can save the worst sinner of us all, and turn away the heavy wrath of God." Hugh Ritson broke again into a bitter laugh. "The end has come of sin, as of trouble. No matter." Then, with an awful solemnity, he added: "My soul is barren. It is already given over to the undying worm. I shall die to-morrow at sunrise." "No man knows the day nor the hour--" Hugh Ritson repeated, with a fearful emphasis, "I shall die as the sun rises on Sunday morning." Parson Christian remained with him the weary night through. The wind moaned and howled outside. It licked the walls as with the tongues of serpents. The parson prayed fervently, but Hugh Ritson's voice never once rose with his. To and fro, to and fro, the dying man continued his direful walk. At one moment he paused and said with a ghastly smile, "This dying is an old story. It has been going on every day for six thousand years, and yet we find it as terrible as ever." Toward three in the morning he threw open the shutters. The windows were still dark; it seemed as if the dawn were far away. "It is coming," he said calmly. "I knew it must come soon. Let us go out to meet it." With infinite effort he pulled his ulster over his shoulders, put on his hat, and opened the door. "Where are you going?" said the parson, and his voice broke. "To the top of the fell." "Why there?"