“The requisite matters, sir, are not at hand,” said Parsons, unabashed.

“Eustace, go and fetch his matters for him; you seem to be in all his plots.”

Eustace went silently and sullenly.

“What’s that fresh noise at the back, now?”

“The maid, sir, a wailing over her uncle; the fellow that we saw sneak away when we came up. It was him the horse killed.”

It was true. The wretched host had slipped off on their approach, simply to call the neighboring outlaws to the spoil; and he had been filled with the fruit of his own devices.

“His blood be on his own head,” said Amyas.

“I question, sir,” said Yeo, in a low voice, “whether some of it will not be on the heads of those proud prelates who go clothed in purple and fine linen, instead of going forth to convert such as he, and then wonder how these Jesuits get hold of them. If they give place to the devil in their sheepfolds, sure he’ll come in and lodge there. Look, sir, there’s a sight in a gospel land!”

And, indeed, the sight was curious enough. For Parsons was kneeling by the side of the dying man, listening earnestly to the confession which the man sobbed out in his gibberish, between the spasms of his wounded chest. Now and then Parsons shook his head; and when Eustace returned with the holy wafer, and the oil for extreme unction, he asked him, in a low voice, “Ballard, interpret for me.”

And Eustace knelt down on the other side of the sufferer, and interpreted his thieves’ dialect into Latin; and the dying man held a hand of each, and turned first to one and then to the other stupid eyes,—not without affection, though, and gratitude.

“I can’t stand this mummery any longer,” said Yeo. “Here’s a soul perishing before my eyes, and it’s on my conscience to speak a word in season.”

“Silence!” whispered Amyas, holding him back by the arm; “he knows them, and he don’t know you; they are the first who ever spoke to him as if he had a soul to be saved, and first come, first served; you can do no good. See, the man’s face is brightening already.”

“But, sir, ’tis a false peace.”

“At all events he is confessing his sins, Yeo; and if that’s not good for him, and you, and me, what is?”

“Yea, Amen! sir; but this is not to the right person.”

“How do you know his words will not go to the right person, after all, though he may not send them there? By heaven! the man is dead!”

It was so. The dark catalogue of brutal deeds had been gasped out; but ere the words of absolution could follow, the head had fallen back, and all was over.

“Confession in extremis is sufficient,” said Parsons to Eustace (“Ballard,” as Parsons called him, to Amyas’s surprise), as he rose. “As for the rest, the intention will be accepted instead of the act.”

“The Lord have mercy on his soul!” said Eustace.

“His soul is lost before our very eyes,” said Yeo.

“Mind your own business,” said Amyas.