was as deep and hard as then, but it quitted me for a moment
during which I could still watch it, see it fix successively
several other things. On the spot there came to me the added
shock of a certitude that it was not for me he had come there.
He had come for someone else.

The flash of this knowledge--for it was knowledge in the midst
of dread--produced in me the most extraordinary effect,
started as I stood there, a sudden vibration of duty and courage.
I say courage because I was beyond all doubt already far gone.
I bounded straight out of the door again, reached that of the house,
got, in an instant, upon the drive, and, passing along the terrace
as fast as I could rush, turned a corner and came full in sight.
But it was in sight of nothing now--my visitor had vanished.
I stopped, I almost dropped, with the real relief of this;
but I took in the whole scene--I gave him time to reappear.
I call it time, but how long was it? I can't speak
to the purpose today of the duration of these things.
That kind of measure must have left me: they couldn't
have lasted as they actually appeared to me to last.
The terrace and the whole place, the lawn and the garden beyond it,
all I could see of the park, were empty with a great emptiness.
There were shrubberies and big trees, but I remember
the clear assurance I felt that none of them concealed him.
He was there or was not there: not there if I didn't see him.
I got hold of this; then, instinctively, instead of returning
as I had come, went to the window. It was confusedly present
to me that I ought to place myself where he had stood.
I did so; I applied my face to the pane and looked,
as he had looked, into the room. As if, at this moment,