alised it, felt it, knew it—grim in leering irony the fact thrust itself upon him, and denial was but added mockery, an added barb. He was weak here, pitifully, helplessly weak—his craving, his hunger for her dominated him, would dominate him, intoxicate his senses—master him. Yes; he would, he could, he must stop now—but hereafter—afterwards? The temptation had not come for the last time. It would come again and again, and each time it would grow stronger—and he had so nearly yielded now! Go where he would, put the world between them—and he would come back—drawn to her irrevocably by the love that knew no other reason than fulfilment, bigger, stronger than himself, engulfing him—drawn to her as he had been drawn in the last two months—drawn to her more surely, more irresistibly than he had been drawn this time, for now her love was his and he would hear her calling, always calling, across the distance—and sooner or later he would come back to her—his soul told him that. Yes; here he was weak, a pliable thing—here he could not trust himself—he dared not trust himself—he would yield again now at one word of her voice upon his ears, one breath of hers upon his cheek, one touch of her lips to his—one glimpse of her. And she—she was waiting for him now—at the bridge.
A cloud veiled the moonpath; the white brightness of the fields faded to a sombre grey, grew darker, and all around was black. Slowly, very slowly, the cloud passed, as though lingering to shield the form upon the ground, and then from its filmy edges the moonglint struggled forth again and the soft whiteness flooded the earth once more.
