anger, sublime in purpose, and piteous in its failing energies.

"Back! all of you!" he cried, and stopped, clutching at the door-
casing on either side to hold himself erect. "You cannot come in
here. This is the judge's--"

Not even his iron resolve or once unequalled physique could stand
the sapping of the terrible gash which disfigured his forehead. He
had been run over by an automobile in a moment of blind
abstraction, and his hurt was mortal. But though his tongue
refused to finish, his eye still possessed its power to awe and
restrain. Though the crowd had followed him almost into the centre
of the room, they felt themselves held back by the spirit of this
man, who as long as he lived and breathed would hold himself a
determined barrier between them and what he had been set to guard.

As long as he lived and breathed. Alas! that would be but a little
while now. Already his head, held erect by the passion of his
purpose, was sinking on his breast; already his glazing eye was
losing its power of concentration, when with a final rally of his
decaying strength, he started erect again and cried out in
terrible appeal:

"I have disobeyed the judge, and, as you see, it has killed him.
Do not make me guilty of giving away his secret. Swear that you
will leave this door unpassed; swear that no one but his son shall
ever turn this lock; or I will haunt you, I, Bela, man by man,
till you sink in terror to your graves. Swear! sw--"

The last adjuration ended in a moan. His head fell forward again