Chapter XXVI: Ramoth Gilead

Centuries of investigation have not revealed definitely the laws of mind and motive. It is true that their interpretation is attempted, that conduct is often prognosticated; but how often is the judgment set aside by that superior court, the actual occurrence. Montcalm's condition was complicated by the terrible excitement which he had undergone. He may have been sane or insane. It is my task not to explain but to narrate.

After his confederate, Boutwell, had failed in his attempt at robbery, Montcalm formed his second plan to thwart the cupidity of Durgenson. As he stood over Archer in Ratke's house, a strange fragment of memory came to him, a fragment which, even then, he strove to connect and locate. He had seen that dull countenance when it was impressive, when it had terrified him. Something of that terror returned. Suddenly he remembered his dream. He saw himself again flying through the swamp, he saw Archer arise, he heard the shot which stopped his progress.

His hand trembled as he removed the money-bag from Archer's head. It was then that he was seized with an unbalancing of self-possession, which sometimes consigns to an adverse fate even the bravest of men.

He was struck in the back by one of the shots which Archer fired. He ran nearly to the barnyard without becoming aware of the seriousness of his wound, but, when he reached the straw-stack, he comprehended that he was badly hurt. The swamp was toward half a mile distant and the intervening fields offered little protection. Too weak to go much farther, he crawled into a hole which the cattle had made in the stack, and at the entrance of which Daggett had placed some short rails to prevent its being enlarged. He burrowed as far as he could in the end of this cave, covering himself with the littering which lay thick on the bottom. Before he had completed the work of secretion, Ratke dashed past the opening. In the course of a minute he came back and but a few feet from Montcalm commenced to don his trousers.

Of the bodily and mental suffering endured by Montcalm that night and the succeeding day who but the One all-wise can ever know.

The day of anguish, the longest which Montcalm had ever known, drew near its close. The shadows deepened in the miserable dwelling where lay the miserable man.

Some one was again pulling straw from the stack. He raised his head to see who was disturbing his painful reflections. For a moment, as his gaze fell on Manie, he was glad, but his joy soon changed to longing and regret. He wished that the burden of his sin were lifted from him, that he were even then dying, and she his nurse. Peacefully he would pass into that world from which he now shrank, with her soothing hand upon his brow, with her sympathetic words sounding in his ears. While he was watching her, she hastily gathered the straw in her arms and ran toward the barn. Montcalm heard the conversation between Mrs. Grippin and Daggett. He envied this fellow with his never-failing fund of good spirits, his perfect adaptation to circumstances. He would have traded his identity for that of the most unlettered of the hired men, even for that of Archer with his ignorance and egotism and his sleepy, inexpressive face. His recollection during the night was singularly fruitful. Before him was spread out his whole life, a long manuscript, on which he read the beginning and the end of error. Of all events the most persistent in recurring was the murder of Green. The frightful gash, the staring eyes, the dripping of blood into the well, were presented as vividly to him as when, gloomy and inert, he stood by the body of his victim in the cellar. He recalled the minute particulars of the dream which succeeded his crime. How smooth was that river, and how typical was it of his boyhood. What would he not give to be as he was and sport in the meadows beside it, to plunge into its waters and cool the fever which was consuming his body and his soul. He believed he understood why Green had leered at him. That confident expression of triumph had been prophetic. The murderer had met and was meeting his reward. His encounter with Archer in the swamp was not meaningless. Its second enactment in Ratke's house had, indeed, stopped his flight and now promised to deliver him into the hands of that being who had taught him his bland deceit, whose recompense for service had been disappointment, remorse and ruin.

Once more Montcalm crawled from the stack for water. He had greatly weakened during the day. With faltering steps he went to the tank. He took a generous draught and wet his head and face. The cool water revived him, and his tottering legs grew stronger. He believed that his damnation was assured, and that he could add nothing to the punishment which was to be meted out to him. His one desire was to gratify his hatred of Durgenson. Very soon the estate would be in the hands of the dishonest stock-buyer. He surveyed the barns and the house. What a fine appearance they gave to the place, and at how little cost had Durgenson secured them. He tossed the bottle by the tank. He would need it no more. His lips closed tightly, his hands were clenched. He threw the bag of stolen money into the hollow which he had quitted, and walked to the small barnyard gate, where, hardly able to stand, he sat down. But his rest did not help him. He must go on before he was overtaken by exhaustion. He walked a few steps farther, and, sinking on the earth, commenced to crawl toward the house. The straw was scattered thickly along his route. He was obliged frequently to suspend his exertions, but he did not dare stop long, fearful that his little remaining energy would forsake him. From the place where one of the ticks had been emptied, he gathered some straw, which he carried in his arms. Rising once more, he traversed the small space which was between him and the house. He wished to get to the southwest corner of the building, but it seemed to him that he could go no farther. He raised himself on his elbow. Hugging the straw, he edged along on one arm and a leg. With deliberate desperation he measured his strength, knowing that if he were prodigal of it he must fail in his design.

At the corner he lay down for several minutes. A light wind was blowing from the southwest. He raised himself, placed the straw against the house and ignited it. The blaze caught in the dry clapboards and rose slowly, then rapidly toward the eaves.

Montcalm endeavored to escape to a cooler atmosphere. He crawled feebly to the edge of the spruce, and by a last pitiable effort succeeded in getting among them. A column of flame had mounted high in the house. The bright light and the dark rolling smoke reminded him of the awful glare he had seen in the mystic land of which he had dreamed, and he knew that his Ramoth Gilead had come.