"Nothing could be so certain. Willard wrote and told her I had taken Nancy away from Marten. Willard struck the blow; but I forged the weapon. My mother lay dying while I was philandering with another man's wife. Poor soul! She tried to have the letter destroyed--to spare me, no doubt--but the dagger I placed in Willard's hand had pierced so deep that she died with the words of forgiveness on her lips. No, you need not worry unduly, Dacre; though I have no right to harrow your feelings in this way. I shall not anticipate the decree of Providence by self-murder. My worst chastisement now is to live, knowing that I killed my mother." "What damned rot!" broke out Dacre furiously. Power rose, went to his friend, and put a hand on his shoulder. He smiled, with an odd semblance of content. "You're a good chap," he said, "but a poor actor. You know I am right. You wouldn't stand in my shoes for all the gold in the Indies; 'for what doth it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?' I've lost mine. I must try and find it again. Don't you see? That is my only chance. Good God! If there is another and a better life hereafter, I cannot meet my mother and tell her that I valued my wretched husk of a body so greatly that I made no search for the soul I flung away. I've thought it all out. The road is open and marked with signposts. A man without a soul can surely afford to risk his body. Come! It is growing dark, and this room will soon be peopled with ghosts. Let's walk in the fresh, cool air, and I'll explain myself clearly." CHAPTER XIII THE BEGINNING OF THE PILGRIMAGE At first none save Dacre knew what was going on. To MacGonigal and Jake it seemed that Power was merely seeking distraction by putting his affairs in order, and they regarded such healing activity with joy. People in Bison, too, were delighted by the change in his habits. The man who used to leave to his mother everything connected with the social well-being of the town now gave these matters his close interest, and inquired thoroughly into the philanthropic schemes to which she had devoted so much time and almost unstinted means; incidentally, he contrived to puzzle Dr. Stearn. One day, when in Denver on business, he called at the doctor's house. "I want you to clear up a point that is bothering me," he said. "Suppose nothing unusual had occurred to hasten my mother's death, how long would she have lived?" "Nothing unusual did occur," insisted Stearn. "Ah! I have expressed myself awkwardly. How long, then, under the most favorable conditions, could she have lived?" "Three or four years." "Five?" "It is possible." "Six?" "I should doubt it." "Seven?" "You are marching too rapidly. If Mrs. Power lived seven years with inflamed aortic valves, I should regard the fact as something akin to a miracle." "But miracles do happen, even in science?" "Um--yes." "Thank you, Doctor. That is all I wish to know. Anything you want for your poorer patients?"