servitor of truth, and on that plea I beg you to forgive his importunity."
All this time the judge had been holding Northcote's hand. Towards the end his voice seemed to fail, but the pressure of his fingers increased.
"These are my last words," he said feebly. "Guard your trust; take your stand upon truth. May God keep you. One who is old will remember you in his prayers."
Almost involuntarily the judge placed his hands on the shoulders of the young man and pressed his lips to his forehead.
For a moment Northcote seemed petrified with bewilderment. This strange message from one who had run his course to one who was entering upon his own atrophied the powers of speech and motion. At last he tore his hand from the judge's weakening grasp and ran from the room. In his flight he seemed to detect the sound of something dull and heavy falling behind him. Yet in the depths of his agitation and his shame he did not stay to look back.
He was soon out in the dark streets. Their coldness and commotion, their secrecy, and above all their freedom, were painfully welcome. He had hardly been able to draw breath in that arena in which he had fought his battle during so many dreadful hours. The old madness of movement, the old insensate desire for liberty overcame him again, and hungry and weary as he was he proceeded to tramp fiercely about the raw winter night.
As he marched without aim hither and thither, up one street and down another, he had no thought of the astonishing victory he had gained. The
