“Your duty is done, sir,” smiles the chilly court, “and well done. I congratulate you, sir.” Then he turns to the jury. “Gentlemen, I cannot pass your recommendation to mercy lightly. I shall not forget it. It is better that ten guilty men escape than that one suffer innocently. I am now in a trifle of a hurry. I shall suspend sentence until I can think your recommendation well over. Crier, adjourn the court.” The district attorney had his golf. The judge had his witty dinner. The recommendation to mercy was forgotten. The sentence of the court was never passed. A higher tribunal claimed jurisdiction. Christof Nielsen died in his cell. John Hall sent this note to the judge on the same day: “My watch was in the pocket of my Sunday vest. I forgot to change it on Monday. Have that young man set free. I am sorry.” “Let him be discharged as soon as possible,” said the righteous judge to the district attorney, flinging the note on his desk. But death is swifter than justice when her wheels turn backward. VIII THE SHADOWS OF DEATH Over the sea, many months after, a runner brings a letter to those who sit beside a failing rushlight. The faces are too white—the eyes too brilliant for well-nourished bodies. Signs of wolfish poverty abound. They are but three. The rest are dead of hunger. One is old and blind. Upon his pathetic face the shadow of death has passed. Another has the smile of the simple—tortured into pain by the tight-drawn lines of want. Another is young and fair—yes—still young and fair—but not red-lipped now. For these many months which might all be years they have borne together the weariness of this watching and cold and hunger. The ice hangs just above their small thatch now, and the sea is at the door. Yet more than the hunger of their bodies—more than the cold and terror—have been the hunger and the cold and the terror of their souls. They have prayed God with agony to let their cup pass. Is there to be no word? No sign? If God wills—yes. They have both trusted and doubted God. Yet now they repent. Here, in this letter, is the answer to their prayers. After all God is righteous—altogether righteous! Is it to bid them come? Is it to tell them when he will come? If the first, they will go in haste—for the ice is close, as he foretold. God has spoken. If the last, he must take them quickly, or the ice will come. They gather a little closer about the dying light. The blind one clasps his hands hard on his staff to stop their shaking. The simple face is all one ghastly smile. The wan one—wiping her dry eyes where there should be tears—kneels before them, and with a quivering supplication breaks the seal. Her face is as ashes. She has not a word in her dry throat. The writing is not his. At her silence a shiver creeps over the blind one. The simple one smiles anew. “Ha, ha!” he says, “I am hungry!”