The light faded from his countenance as it had come; from his pallid face the tide of life ebbed again; his eyes closed like a tired child's; then, in an instant, he opened them again, and gazed at Vanulm with an expression that the latter had never seen before. "Good old Herman," he muttered drowsily, "I knew he'd come. Off my head a minute, I guess. Feverish, maybe; that night did it, that night it rained--" He stopped, with an expression of complete bewilderment; once, twice and thrice he gazed around the unfamiliar room; then drew a long sigh, as if at last awakened from sleep. "Herman," he said quietly, "God knows what rot I've been talking. I'm pretty near gone; I know it; but whether I go off wandering again or not, I'm sane now; as sane as you are; do you believe me?" Vanulm nodded silently. It took no eye of experience, indeed, to see that the sands of life were running low. "There's something more you want to say?" he asked, with sudden intuition. Gordon spoke with ineffable sadness. "Herman," he said, his voice scarcely raised above a whisper, "I've made a horrible mess of things. I know it now. If only--" his voice faltered--"if only I could go back to that day on the island with Rose. I can remember so well. 'A cottage in the country,' she said, 'with you all to myself.' Herman, I didn't know it then, but that day I shut myself out of Paradise. That day was the parting of the ways. And since then it's been down and down and down--Palmer, and poor Annie Holton, and old Jim and Rose, and I ruined May Sinclair's life, and I ruined poor Jack's--and Hinckley--poor fool--he had as good a right to live as I--Ah! God! Herman, what I've got is turned to ashes. Gold--Love bought for gold--Power bought for gold--all Gold. Everything--and Nothing! And I could have had friends--money enough to live on--and a woman who loved me. Think, Herman--" and his voice sank very low--"a woman who loved me, and, after all, that is life." His voice died away. There was a long silence. Outside, the wind stirred gently the clambering vines, and a ray of sunlight darted, questing, into the quiet room. The sick man turned his head, and his voice was very low. "And after that, Herman," he said, "a good friend; the friend you've always been to me; the kind of a friend I might have been to you." Again fell silence. Once outside a song-sparrow sang sweet and clear his brave little song, and the sick man smiled. At last he turned his head, and with a great effort raised his hand until it touched Vanulm's. "Good-by, Herman," he said. And then, over the quiet of the peaceful afternoon came a change, sudden, terrible. Before Vanulm could stir, the sick man dashed aside his coverings and raised himself bolt upright in the bed, his eyes burning, his face working convulsively, his whole expression that of a man who looks upon a sight of horror. "I've lost!" he shrieked, in a terrible voice. "Oh, God, I've lost!"