He could not choose but halt, groaning to give up the chase, and then sped back to the fallen man. At his coming John Bard collapsed on the grass, and when Anthony knelt beside him a voice in rough dialect began, as if an enforced culture were brushed away and forgotten in the crisis: "Anthony, there ain't no use in followin' him!" "Where did the bullet strike you? Quick!" "A place where it ain't no use to look. I know!" "Let me follow him; it's not too late--" The dying man struggled to one elbow. "Don't follow, lad, if you love me." "Who is he? Give me his name and--" "He's acted in the name of God. You have no right to hunt him down." "Then the law will do that." "Not the law. For God's sake swear--" "I'll swear anything. But now lie quiet; let me--" "Don't try. This couldn't end no other way for John Bard." "Is that your real name?" "Yes. Now listen, Anthony, for my time's short." He closed his eyes as if fighting silently for strength. Then: "When I was a lad like you, Anthony--" That was all. The massive body relaxed; the head fell back into the dewy grass. Anthony pressed his head against the breast of John Bard and it seemed to him that there was still a faint pulse. With his pocket knife he ripped away the coat from the great chest and then tore open the shirt. On the expanse of the hairy chest there was one spot from which the purple blood welled; a deadly place for a wound, and yet the bleeding showed that there must still be life. He had no chance to bind the wound, for John Bard opened his eyes again and said, as if in his dream he had still continued his tale to Anthony. "So that's all the story, lad. Do you forgive me?" "For what, sir? In God's name, for what?" "Damnation! Tell me; do you forgive John Bard?" He did not hear the answer, for he murmured: "Even Joan would forgive," and died. CHAPTER VII BLUEBEARD'S ROOM As Anthony Woodbury, he knelt beside the dying. As Anthony Bard he rose with the dead man in his arms a mighty burden even for his supple strength; yet he went staggering up the slope, across a level terrace, and back to the house. There it was Peters who answered his call, Peters with a flabby face grown grey, but still the perfect servant who asked no questions; together they bore the weight up the stairs and placed it on John Bard's bed. While Anthony kept his steady vigil by the dead man, it was Peters again who summoned the police and the useless doctor. To the old, uniformed sergeant, Anthony told a simple lie. His father had gone for a walk through the grounds because the night was fine, and Anthony was to join him there later, but when he arrived he found a dying man who could not even explain the manner of his death. "Nothin' surprises me about a rich man's death," said the sergeant, "not in these here days of anarchy. Got a place to write? I want to make out my report."