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