“He’s got a bad enough road to go, uncle,” I said. “I don’t want to lay up more remorse for myself. We’ll cheer him on his way. Come, Mr. Sant!” My uncle uttered what sounded like an oath. But he objected no further. “In manus tuas, Domine, commendo spiritum suum!” I heard him mutter viciously; and I ran up, and shook his hand hard, and hurried out. In the little garden we found Joshua. He understood without a word. He was very sombre; but quiet, and glad, by his glistening eyes, to see me well. We hastened up the village street. News of our mission had got abroad; vague and speculative as yet, for Jacob had been loyal. But the people we passed looked at us covertly and curiously, scenting strange revelations in the air. The ex-smuggler lived, was dying, in a little cottage up a squalid alley near the head of the village. It was a poor, dreary hovel, the mere lair of a beast, self-degraded, God-forsaken. His wretched wife, the real scapegoat of his sins, took us in to him. “He’s dyin’ hard,” she said, in a thin fretful voice; “hard as a lord, wi’ the whole world to lose. He allers was above his station, was Jole. Lived on dreams, he did. I mind the time he promised me a kerridge; and now we’ll be bad set to find a hearse.” He sat propped up under a frowzy patchwork quilt. A silhouette under broken glass was clutched in one of his hands. The whole man was sunk in upon his frame; his breath, always difficult to him to draw, laboured heavily; his eyes, in their livid halos, were quite unearthly. The woman went to him, and made some show of easing the coverlet on his chest. “I was telling the gentlemen,” she said, shrilly, “that time was we was to have our kerridge, and now summut less than a hearse must serve.” He nodded, and moved his ashy lips, and fingered the picture in his hand. “He’s daft on it,” she said, turning to address us. “’Tis our little Martha, gentlemen, took at the fair before her going. I tell him he needn’t look to join her where she sings among the angels. He should have thought about it earlier, if he wanted to curry favour. Better to pass on what he can get from you, if so be as you’re agreeable.” I felt a sudden thickness in my throat. “We forgive you, Mr. Rampick!” I cried out, and hung my head, and turned in dumb entreaty to Mr. Sant. He hurried to the bed-head, and put a gentle manly arm about the dying sinner. “Do you hear, Rampick?” he said. “As God witnesses, they forgive you.” The smuggler moved his exhausted hands. Mr. Sant, understanding, lifted them both for him in an attitude of prayer. “Mr. Pilbrow,” he said softly, “he wants you to hear the truth, if possible, from his own lips. Will you come?” Joshua moved up, and knelt by the bed. We all heard the broken, gasping confession--