the rifts a moon-glint and the starlight came, passed from him
utterly--and a strange calm, a strange joy, a strange sadness was upon
him--and his brain for the first time in many hours was rational,
keen--and he was master of himself again--and yet master of himself no
more!

He smiled a little at the seeming paradox--smiled a little wistfully. He
was beaten--by the game--he had won. How strange it was that sense of
more than resignation now--a sense that seemed like one of
thankfulness--a sense that bade him fling wide his arms as though
suddenly they had been loosed from bondage and he was free, free as the
God-given air around him.

He could understand Helena, and the Flopper, and Pale Face Harry now.
With them it had come slowly, in a gradual concatenation, a progression,
as it were, that had worked upon them, molding them, changing them day
by day--and he had been too blind to see, or, seeing, had measured the
changes only by a standard as false as all his life had been false. With
him it had come in a crash, unheralded, that had left him a naked,
quivering, stricken thing to know madness, terror and despair, to taste
of emotions that had sickened the soul itself.

On Madison walked--along the road, across the little bridge, into the
wagon track where, under the arched branches, it was utter dark. There
was no one upon the road--he passed no one--saw no one--he was alone.

He had lost Helena--but he understood her now--understood the depth of
remorse that she was living through, the terror and the dread as she
sought escape, the fear of him--yes, it would be fear now where once it
had been love! He had lost Helena--that was the price he had paid--but