by another.

"To kill you!" he repeated almost in a whisper. "I shall never forgive
myself. My life is ended, I shall never find courage enough to live."

But Pierre clasped him yet more tightly. "What do you say?" he answered.
"Will there not rather be a fresh and stronger tie of affection between
us? Ah! yes, brother, let me save you as you saved me, and we shall be
yet more closely united! Don't you remember that evening at Neuilly, when
you consoled me and held me to your heart as I am holding you to mine? I
had confessed my torments to you, and you told me that I must live and
love! . . . And you did far more afterwards: you plucked your own love
from your breast and gave it to me. You wished to ensure my happiness at
the price of your own! And how delightful it is that, in my turn, I now
have an opportunity to console you, save you, and bring you back to
life!"

"No, no, the bloodstain is there and it is ineffaceable. I can hope no
more!"

"Yes, yes, you can. Hope in life as you bade me do! Hope in love and hope
in labour!"

Still weeping and clasping one another, the brothers continued speaking
in low voices. The expiring candle suddenly went out unknown to them, and
in the inky night and deep silence their tears of redeeming affection
flowed freely. On the one hand, there was joy at being able to repay a
debt of brotherliness, and on the other, acute emotion at having been led
by a fanatical love of justice and mankind to the very verge of crime.
And there were yet other things in the depths of those tears which