Surprise arrested Jason as he saw Junior’s lips draw back over his teeth in a stiff smile, a stiff, set smile, and yet there was something about him, about the wave of the hair around his white face, about the light in his eyes, that was bonny. He must have been a beautiful baby. His mother might have been excused for loving him to idolatry. Junior’s voice was hoarse, scarcely understandable: “You’re too late,” he said. “A woman got ahead of you.” Jason rounded the corner of the table. He seized the coat which Junior was holding to his side. Then both of them heard a battering on the outer door. Both of them recognized the voice of Mahala crying: “Jason! For God’s sake let me in!” Jason withdrew his hands from Junior and stared down at him, and then he looked at the door. But Junior met his eyes, and gathering his forces, he said quietly: “Let her in. It is her right to be present at the finish of the Morelands.” Slowly Jason crossed the room and unlocked the door. Mahala rushed inside and Jason slammed shut the door after her, relocking it. He could almost feel the steps rocking from the weight of the men crowded upon them. Mahala’s eyes raced over Jason from head to foot and a breath of relief escaped her. Then she turned to Junior. She saw his ghastly face; she saw a slow red spread over the hand that was gripping his side. She saw the revolver on the table before him, and she cried out in horror: “Oh, Jason! Am I too late to keep you from blackening your soul?” Junior gathered his remaining forces. He made a brave struggle to straighten in his chair. The smile that he meant to be attractive was ghastly. There was something beyond description in his tones: “Mahala, you’ve been a long time coming,” he said to the terrified girl. “Pardon my bad manners, I would stand to welcome you if I could.” Mahala watched him in fascinated wonder and again that awful smile flashed across his face. “Don’t look so horrified,” he said to her. “This is not fratricide.” He lifted his right hand and grasping the revolver, drew it toward him. “I have the honour to inform you,” he said, “that at the eleventh hour I have had the decency to remove myself from the world for the express purpose of saving a lady and my dear brother the disagreeable task. In about three minutes, Mahala, I’m going to be a very dead man.” A door near the closet opened and Martin Moreland hurried into the room. In a panic of terror, he rushed to Junior, calling in a high, strained voice: “Up, boy, up! This is no time to sleep! The mob is hot after our blood! The mob! They mean business, I tell you! They’re going to beat us and strangle us like dogs!” He rushed to Junior, seized him by the shoulder and dragged him to a sitting posture. “Wake up, Junior!” he cried. “Wake up!” There was still life in Junior. With a gasp and a rattle, he answered his father: “Too late, Dad, I’ve finished this in my own way. They can’t get me, because I’m not here.”