But one further sign was there of its mighty passing--a ragged rent a foot square driven through the very wall of the house within the vault. And here a thin shaft of light came in and fell, like the focus of an awful eye, full upon the miniature where it lay nailed, face upward, upon the axle--fell, also, upon that empty niche in the brickwork where once had stood the treasure for which Jason had given his life. I turned to the shattered man, leaned over him, touched him. He gave a gasp of agony and opened his eyes. The white stare of horror was in them and the blood ran faster from his mouth. “Water!” he cried, with a dry, clacking sound in his throat. I hurried from the room, although he called after me feebly not to leave him, drew a jugful from the tap in the kitchen and returned. I heard no sound in the house. A glimmer of flood came in through the gaping door to the yard. No immediate help was possible in the rising of that direful morning after the storm. I was alone with my many dead. I put the jug to his lips and he sucked down a long, gluttonous draught. Then he looked at me with eager inquiry breaking through his mortal torment. “My chest is all broken in,” he said, straining out his voice in bitter anguish. “When I move the end will come. Quick!--you said something--at the last moment--what was it?” “That I believed it was your son you sent to his death down there.” “I have no son. Once--yes--but he died--was poisoned--or drowned.” “Oh! God forgive this man!” I cried, lifting my face in terror, and in that sick moment inspiration, I think, was given me. “He never died. He was saved, to grow up a hopeless cripple, and that was he you murdered last night.” He closed his eyes again, and I saw his ashen lips moving. “Oh, man,” I cried, “are you praying? Take grace of repentance and humble your wicked soul at the last. I can’t believe you innocent of a share in the wretchedness of this wretched house. I am the only one left of it--broken and lost to hope, but I forgive you--do you understand?--I forgive you.” “I never killed the boy,” he muttered in a low, suffering tone, and with his eyes still closed. “Will you tell me all you know about it? If you are guiltless, be merciful as you hope for mercy.” “Modred found the cameo--picked it up--he told me himself--in this very room--where--your father must have dropped it.” I cried “yes” passionately, and implored him to go on. “He--the old man--that night--accused me of stealing it. It was the first--I’d heard of it. Presently--he fell asleep--in his chair. I thought I would--seize the opportunity to--look for it over the house--quietly. Finding myself--outside--the boy’s room--I went in to see--how--he--was getting on. He was awake--and--there was the very thing--in his hand. I asked him how--he had come by it. He told me. I demanded it--of him--said--your father had--promised it me. Nothing--availed--availed.”