Belford's Magazine, Vol 2, December 1888

When he was almost exhausted he struck a tree with his arm. Pausing a second to feel the bark, he went quickly around it and stumbled over the board walk in front of Colonel Hornberger's house. Then he knew the way. The board walk passed the Block. He ran on it fast as he could, and burst in upon Lizzī as she sat before the fire with her face buried in her hands.

Between gasps for breath he began to tell his story, while his head resounded with whirring noises and his temples throbbed as if they would burst.

"Mind the baby, Benner," she called to him from the porch before he had finished.

A wail from the infant directed him to the cradle. Kneeling beside it, he struggled with his cough and rocked the crying child.

When the lynchers entered the bridge, Henry Myers climbed up to one of the cross-pieces. The end of the rope was thrown to him, and he made it fast. Then Gill was placed on a chair.

"Yer hev got ter die, John Gillfillan, an' yer may as well make a clean breast uv it," said Henry, his feet dangling not far from Gill's head.

The sullen faces of the angry men did not seem to frighten Gill, who could see them plainly in the light of several stable-lanterns distributed through the crowd. The rope pressed against his neck, but his hands were unbound.

"We'll give yer three minits ter make up yer mind, not as we've got enny doubts 'bout yer guilt, but we think yer might die easier hevin' told the truth onct in yer life."

Henry took a bull's-eye watch from his vest-pocket and asked for a lantern. By its light he grimly watched the hands.

The silence in the bridge was so intense that Gill could hear the watch tick, and the sounds of Blind Benner's feet striking the board walk as he ran to Lizzī were borne to the ears of the crowd.

At last Henry said:

"Yer hev jist got a quarter uv a minit, Gill."

Clearing his throat, Gill made a sign with his hand that he was going to speak. The men came closer to him, and Henry put his watch away.

"I guess I ought to tell. I did set fire to the store because I wanted to get rid of the books. I meant to get out in time through the window; was just going to open it and jump when I heard Lizzī" – his voice faltered a little – "call for help and her axe strike the door downstairs. Then I thought I'd let her save me. You know how she pulled me out, but you didn't know that I was pretending I was overcome with the smoke."

"Why did yer want ter burn the books?" asked Thomas Myers.

"Because I had been stealing from Colonel Hornberger, and couldn't have hid it much longer."

He was very calm, but his face was blanched.

"Yer kin say yer prayers ef yer want ter," said Henry.

"Guess they wouldn't be much good," Gill remarked with a wan smile.

"Then tie his arms, Tom."

Near the bridge Lizzī stopped suddenly, her impetuous rush to save Gill's life checked by the thought to which she gave utterance in a whisper:

"I know my shame."

She had not known it when she ran to rescue him from death in the store fire; she had not learned it when she faced unflinchingly the scorn of the women; and she was ignorant of it when she dashed into the bar-room to stop the fight her brothers made in defence of her good name: but now it was upon her with crushing weight, and she stood helpless in sight of the rope that was to strangle Gill.

If she would save him it behooved her to act quickly, for she could see a man pinioning his arms. Moved with great pity for her betrayer, whose white face she could see plainly, she summoned strength to enter the bridge.

As she stepped on the planks she was conscious of a change in the manner of the crowd, and seeing Squire Parsons force his way to Gill's side, paused.

"Henry Myers!" called the squire.

"Here," answered Henry from the cross-piece.

"I have a warrant for the arrest of John Gillfillan issued to you as constable, and you must take him in charge."

Law had entered the crowd, and its presence was immediately recognized by submission. Henry dropped to the bridge-floor and muttered a curse as he addressed the squire:

"Yer hev spoiled a good job; ef yer'd b'en a minit later the devil'd hed Gill, sure."

Lizzī, seeing Gill would not be injured, turned and fled through the darkness to the refuge of her home.

She entered it with bowed head, her queenliness having gone from her forever.

The child was crying petulantly. Blind Benner, lying on the floor, supported his head with one hand and feebly rocked the cradle with the other.

A pool of blood lay on the white quilt that covered the infant, and another was forming on the floor under the cradle.

The child wailed as the cradle rocked slowly and unevenly.

The blood flowed noiselessly from Blind Benner's lips. He knew Lizzī had come back, but he would not speak until she did. He was afraid to know what had happened in the bridge, and would die in ignorance, obeying her last command to him.

With eyes cast down she moved slowly towards the cradle. The blood on the quilt was lighted by the unsteady flame of the candle. Suddenly she saw the scarlet pool. Her head swam and she sank on her knees. Taking the blind man's head impulsively yet tenderly in her hands, she laid it against her heart, bursting with this new grief.

Soothed by the mother's presence or frightened by the nearness of Death, the infant ceased its wail.

The cradle stood still.

But the red stream flowed rapidly, while Blind Benner nervously and weakly took from his vest-pocket a piece of crumpled paper and handed it to Lizzī.

She smoothed it and read, while Blind Benner clung to her neck.

"Too Hoom it may consern.

I leeve all my Sirkus munny to Lizzī an' my fiddel to her boy.

Blind Benner, his X mark.

Wittness

Hunch."

She kissed him on the lips wet with blood.

His head fell. The hemorrhage had been very profuse, and she saw the death-pallor on his cheek. Soon he raised his head, and with his lips close to her ear whispered:

"I kin soon see yer, Lizzī."

Ever after that he was silent.

THE END

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From "Florence Fables," by William J. Florence (Comedian), just published by Belford, Clarke & Co. Copyrighted, 1888.