Until he died he knew she would haunt him as he
saw her there for the last time--her dead-white face, her great eyes,
her voiceless lips, her two little hands clutched at her breast as she
listened to the story of the great lie and his love for her.
Even when he had done, she did not move or speak. He went into his
room, closed the door, and turned on the lights. Quickly he put into
his pack what he needed. And when he was ready, he wrote on a piece of
paper:
"A thousand times I repeat, 'I love you.' Forgive me if you can. If you
cannot forgive, you may tell McDowell, and the Law will find me up at
the place of our dreams--the river's end.
--John Keith."
This last message he left on the table for Mary Josephine.
For a moment he listened at the door. Outside there was no movement, no
sound. Quietly, then, he raised the window through which Kao had come
into his room.
A moment later he stood under the light of the brilliant stars. Faintly
there came to him the sounds of the city, the sound of life, of gayety,
of laughter and of happiness, rising to him now from out of the valley.
He faced the north. Down the side of the hill and over the valley lay
the forests.
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