The terror of that life for her!—as the years went by, the awfulness of it for her! And he could not trust himself—as a fearful, menacing truth that fact burned itself into his soul—he could not trust himself—yet he must never go to her again—at any cost, for all of happiness that might still be left in life for her, he must never go to her again. His, she was his now, she had told him so, and alone, depending on his own strength, when every thought and longing and desire was for her, he could not trust himself—there was nothing in himself to hold him from her—and the next time he would not stop before he reached the bridge. But there was a way and he must take it, one way to make it impossible—impossible for him to accept her sacrifice; impossible for her to plead and insist upon it; impossible for them both—a way to put it forever beyond their reach, hers or his. It was a very terrible, cruel way for her—but better that than that all her life should be utter wreckage, ruin and dismay.
He rose to his feet, and for an instant stood with his hands tight-clasped across his eyes; then swiftly, with ever quickening step as one bent upon an object where pause or delay were fatal to the resolution, he retraced his way to the road, stepped out upon it—and kept on. The prison walls, high, towering, flung their grim shadows across his path; above him a figure, dark-outlined, carbine slung in the crook of his arm, paced to and fro by the little turret guard-house on the corner of the wall.
Opposite the prison entrance Varge turned from the road, mounted the short flight of steps and pulled the bell. And mechanically, as he waited, his shoulders lurched forward a little, like one bracing himself to meet
