The little clergyman was walking by his side, reading tremulously. Ronald looked down at himself, his shoe was hurting him, somebody had left a nail there and he cursed François: but those were not his shoes he was looking at, they were great rough boots and his trousers were old and frayed and there was a shiny patch on his knee. "--Man that is born of a woman hath but little time upon this earth, and that time is filled with misery--" He walked like one in a dream into the shed and felt the trap sag under him. The executioner--it must be the executioner, he thought, stooped and strapped his legs tightly. Ronald wondered what would happen. It was an absurd mistake, of course, rather amusing in a way--François had not been paid his month's salary, and François was meeting his brother today from Interlaken, Interlaken in the Oberland. The man put a cloth over his face--it was linen, unbleached and pungent. When the executioner passed the elastic loops behind his ears, he released one too quickly and it stung. "It is not me, it is not me," said Ronald numbly, "it is the body of Ambrose Sault--the gross body of Ambrose Sault! I'm standing outside watching! It is Sault who is being hanged--Sault! I am Morelle--Morelle of Balliol--Major Boyle," he screamed aloud. "Major Boyle--you know me--I am Morelle--" Yet his body was huge--he felt its grossness, its size, the strength of the corded muscles of the arm; the roaring fury of the life which surged within him. He heard a squeak--the lever was being pulled-- With a crash the trap gave way and the body of Ambrose Sault swung for a second and was dead, but it was the soul of Ronald Morelle that went forth to the eternal spaces of infinity. The prison clock struck nine. _BOOK THE FOURTH_ I A warder came round the edge of the pit with his arms extended as the executioner, reaching out his hand, steadied the quivering rope. The prison doctor looked down the pit. "He's all right," he said vaguely. The tremulous clergyman was the last to go; backing out of the death chamber he watched the warders close and lock the doors. The body of Ronald Morelle settled its top hat firmly on its shapely head and looked down at the little parson. There were tears in that good man's eyes. "He was not bad, he was not bad," he murmured shakily. "I wish he had repented the murder." "There was nothing to repent," said Ronald quietly, "if repentance were possible, the murder was unnecessary." His voice was strangely deep and rich. Hearing himself, he wondered. The minister looked up at him in surprise. "He said exactly the same thing to me this morning," he said, "and in almost identical words; the poor fellow expressed his thoughts in language which seemed unnatural remembering his illiteracy." "Poor soul," said Ronnie thoughtfully. "Poor lonely, lonely soul!"