glance of his eye falling like a sceptre on other men. And yet
his instinct taught him that he too--He! He looked at himself
with sudden loathing, sick, wrung his hands With a cry, and then
was silent. With all the phantoms of his heated, ignorant
fancy, Wolfe had not been vague in his ambitions. They were
practical, slowly built up before him out of his knowledge of
what he could do. Through years he had day by day made this
hope a real thing to himself,--a clear, projected figure of
himself, as he might become.

Able to speak, to know what was best, to raise these men and
women working at his side up with him: sometimes he forgot this
defined hope in the frantic anguish to escape, only to escape,--
out of the wet, the pain, the ashes, somewhere, anywhere,--only
for one moment of free air on a hill-side, to lie down and let
his sick soul throb itself out in the sunshine. But to-night he
panted for life. The savage strength of his nature was roused;
his cry was fierce to God for justice.

"Look at me!" he said to Deborah, with a low, bitter laugh,
striking his puny chest savagely. "What am I worth, Deb? Is it
my fault that I am no better? My fault? My fault?"

He stopped, stung with a sudden remorse, seeing her hunchback
shape writhing with sobs. For Deborah was crying thankless
tears, according to the fashion of women.

"God forgi' me, woman! Things go harder Wi' you nor me. It's
a worse share."