"Well, after this piece of business, I'll send you off for as long as you want to stay. You need a change." Larry revived after a moment or two and some colour crept into his cheeks. "I'm going now," Maclin said, getting up and releasing the tools of Larry's trade. "Better get a good night's rest and be fresh for to-morrow. A day or so won't count, so long as we understand the game. Good-night!" Outside in the darkness Maclin stood still and listened. His iron nerves were shaken and he had his moment of far vision. If he succeeded--well! at that thought Maclin felt his blood run riotously in his veins. Glory! Glory! His name ringing out into fame. But!--the cold sweat broke over the fat man standing in the dark. Still, he would not have been the man he was if he permitted doubt to linger. He _must_ succeed. Right was back of him; with him. Unyielding Right. It must succeed. Maclin strode on, picking his way over the ash heaps and broken bottles. A pale moon was trying to make itself evident, but piles of black clouds defeated it at every attempt. The wind was changing. From afar the chapel bell struck its warning. It rang wildly, gleefully, then sank into silence only to begin once more. Seeking, seeking a quarter in which it might rest. Maclin, head down, plunged into the night and reached the road to the mines. He saw to it that the road was so bad that no one would use it except from necessity, but he cursed it now. He all but fell several times, he thanked God--God indeed!--when the lights of the Cosey Bar came in sight. He did not often drink of his public whiskey, or drink with his foreigners, but he chose to do so to-night. His men welcomed him thickly--they had been wallowing in beer for hours; the man at the bar drew forth a bottle of whiskey--he knew Maclin rarely drank beer. An hour later, Maclin, master of the place and the men, was talking slowly, encouragingly, in a tongue that they all understood. Their dull eyes brightened; their heavy faces twitched under excitement that amounted to inspiration. Now and again they raised their mugs aloft and muttered something that sounded strangely like prayer. Dominated by a man and an emotion they were, not the drudging machines of the mines, but a vital force ready for action. CHAPTER XIII Northrup decided to turn back at once to his own place in life after that revealing afternoon with Mary-Clare. He was not in any sense deceived by conditions. He had, after twenty-four hours, been able to classify the situation and reduce it to its proper proportions. As it stood, it had, he acknowledged, been saved by the rare and unusual qualities of Mary-Clare. But it could not bear the stress and strain of repeated tests. Unless he meant to be a fool and fill his future with remorse, for he was decent and sane, he could do nothing but go away and let the incidents of King's Forest bear sanctifying fruits, not draughts of wormwood.