kindly clench of my shoulder, he left me. In that moment there came a
cowardly feeling, a sense of shamefacedness, and then, hard upon it, and
overwhelming it, a determination to serve Boyd Madras so far as lay in my
power, and to be a man, and not a coward or an idler.

When I found him he was prostrate. In his eyes there was no anger, no
indignation, nor sullenness--all of which he might reasonably have felt;
and instantly I was ashamed of the thought which, as I came to him,
flashed through my mind, that he might do some violent thing. Not that
I had any fear of violence; but I had an active dislike of awkward
circumstances. I felt his fluttering pulse, and noted the blue line on
his warped lips. I gave him some medicine, and then sat down. There was
a silence. What could I say? A dozen thoughts came to my mind, but I
rejected them. It was difficult to open up the subject. At last he put
his hand upon my arm and spoke:

"You told me one night that you would help me if you could. I ought to
have accepted your offer at first; it would have been better.--No, please
don't speak just yet. I think I know what you would say. I knew that
you meant all you urged upon me; that you liked me. I was once worthy
of men's liking, perhaps, and I had good comrades; but that is all over.
You have not come near me lately, but it wasn't because you felt any
neglect, or wished to take back your words; but--because of something
else. . . . I understand it all. She has great power. She always
had. She is very beautiful. I remember when--but I will not call it
back before you, though, God knows, I go over it all every day and every
night, until it seems that only the memory of her is real, and that she
herself is a ghost. I ought not to have crossed her path again, even
unknown to her. But I have done it, and now I cannot go out of that path
without kneeling before her once again, as I did long ago. Having seen