black and grey, black and grey, he could see nothing else, on his sleeves, on his jacket, around his knees, black and grey—that, and the number on his breast. Madly he was fighting with himself to keep his self-control, to crush and hurl back the wild impulse that called upon him to stand before her, as was his right, a clean-handed, clean-souled man. What mattered anything else than that—at any cost—at any hazard! It stood out paramount, above all else—that she should know. Every pound of his heart, the strange new thrill that swept through his veins with every pulse-beat struggled and battered at him for mastery—that she should know.
A long, long time it seemed, and then she rose from her seat. He heard her step behind him and felt her hand laid with lightest touch upon his shoulder—it rested there a moment, just a moment—and then she was gone—walking slowly across the lawn toward the house.
