I want you to see Wade." He led her out upon the porch, and thence into the living-room, and from there into the room where lay the two dead men, one on each side.
Blankets covered the prone, quiet forms.
Columbine had meant to beg to see Wade once before he was laid away forever.

She dreaded the ordeal, yet strangely longed for it.

And here she was self-contained, ready for some nameless shock and uplift, which she divined was coming as she had divined the change in Belllounds.
Then he stripped back the blanket, disclosing Wade's face.

Columbine thrilled to the core of her heart.

Death was there, white and cold and merciless, but as it had released the tragic soul, the instant of deliverance had been stamped on the rugged, cadaverous visage, by a beautiful light; not of peace, nor of joy, nor of grief, but of hope! Hope had been the last emotion of Hell-Bent Wade.
"Collie, listen," said the old rancher, in deep and trembling tones.
"When a man's dead, what he's been comes to us with startlin' truth.
Wade was the whitest man I ever knew.