And up above them all in the belfry, lying prone, but still gripping his rifle's stock which, sweeping the jail with its deadly protruding barrel, had held back hundreds of men, they found Richard Travis, a softened smile on his lips as if he had just entered into the glory of the great Sweet Silence of Things. And by him sat the old preacher, where he had sat since Richard Travis's last shot had saved the jail and the defenders; sat and bound up his wound and gave him the last of his old whiskey out of the little flask, and stopped the flow of blood and saved the life which had nearly bubbled out. And as they brought the desperately wounded man down to the surgeon and to life, the old governor raised his hat and said: "The Travis blood--the Irish Gray--when it's wrong it is hell--when it's right it is heaven." But the old preacher smiled as he helped carry him tenderly down and said: "He is right, forever right, now, Gov'nor. God has made him so. See that smile on his lips! He has laughed before--that was from the body. He is smiling now--that is from the soul. His soul is born again." The old governor smiled and turned. Edward Conway, wounded, was sitting up. The governor grasped his hand: "Ned, my boy, I've appointed you sheriff of this county in place of that scallawag who deserted his post. Stand pat, for you're a Conway--no doubt about that. Stand pat." Under the rock wall, they found a man, dead on his knees, leaning against the wall; his gun, still cocked and deadly, was resting against his shoulder and needing only the movement of a finger to sweep with deadly hail the cotton-bales. His scraggy hair topped the rock fence and his staring eyes peeped over, each its own way. And one of them looked forward into a future which was Silence, and the other looked backward into a past which was Sin. CHAPTER XXV THE SHADOWS AND THE CLOUDS When Richard Travis came to himself after that terrible night, they told him that for weeks he had lain with only a breath between him and death. "It was not my skill that has saved you," said the old surgeon who had been through two wars and who knew wounds as he did maps of battlefields he had fought on. "No," he said, shaking his head, "no, it was not I--it was something beyond me. That you miraculously live is proof of it." He was in his room at The Gaffs, and everything looked so natural. It was sweet to live again, for he was yet young and life now meant so much more than it ever had. Then his eyes fell on the rug, wearily, and he remembered the old setter. "The dog--and that other one?" He sat up nervously in bed, trembling with the thought. The old surgeon guessed and bade him be quiet. "You need not fear that," he said, touching his arm. "The time has passed for fear. You were saved by the shadow of death and--the blood letting you had--and, well, a woman's lips, as many a man has been saved before you. You'd better sleep again now...."