“PLAIN life and death are the only realities. Life eternal — death eternal! For you and me, those are words, my boy — just words!”

It was dusk in my room. I sat on the edge of the bed, chin in hands, staring at the inevitable companion of my solitude. At my feet lay the scattered sheets of Alicia’s letter, scrawled over in a large, childish hand. The outside world was bright with an afterglow of the departed sun. But gray dusk was in my room.

“Just words,” repeated the face.

“Just words,” I said after him dully. Then, at a thought, I roused a trifle. “He won’t go through with it. Even Nils Berquist can’t be willing to die without a protest — and for such a crawling puppy as would let him do it.”

“He will die, but not entirely for your sake,” the presence retorted.

“What do you mean?”

“You haven’t guessed? Well, it is rather amusing from one viewpoint. Your friend is not only in jail; he’s in love!”

“Nils? Nonsense! Besides, if he were in love he would wish to live, not die!”

“That is the amusing part. He is willing to die, because of the love.”

“Some woman refused him, you mean?”

“No; the girl is not even aware of his feeling toward her. She would, I think, be shocked at the very thought. He has only spoken with her twice in his life. But from the first moment that he saw her face he has loved her. He has sat in the courtroom and watched her while the lawyers fought over his life, and to his peculiar nature — rather an amusingly peculiar nature, from our viewpoint — merely watching her so has seemed a privilege beyond price. He is willing to die, not for you, but to buy her happiness.”

“Who is this girl?” I asked hoarsely, and speaking aloud as I still sometimes did with him.

“You should know.”

“Nils Berquist — in love — with Roberta?” I said slowly. “But that’s absurd. You are lying!”

“No. Every day, as you know, she was in that audience beyond the rail. For your sake. Because she knew how you cared for this man Berquist. She herself has a shrinking horror of the ‘red-handed murderer,’ but her devotion to you has served our purpose well. That first mere glimpse he had of her on the street — the hour at dinner in your house — these impressions might have somewhat paled in the stress of confronting so disgraceful a form of death. But in the courtroom he watched her face for hours every day, and each day bound our dear poet and dreamer tighter.”

“But-”

“He measures her love for you by his own for her. As you are his friend still, uncondemned and worthy, he will buy your life for her.”

&l............