I assented.

"Then you consent to take my word that it must be so, without more."

"Indeed, Eugen, I wish for no more."

He looked at me. "If I were to tell you," said he, suddenly, and an
impulsive light beamed in his eyes. A look of relief--it was nothing
else--of hope, crossed his face. Then he sunk again into his former
attitude--as if tired and wearied with some hard battle; exhausted, or
what we more expressively call _niedergeschlagen_.

"Now something more," he went on; and I saw the frown of desperation
that gathered upon his brow. He went on quickly, as if otherwise he
could not say what had to be said: "When he goes from me, he goes to
learn to become a stranger to me. I promise not to see him, nor write to
him, nor in any way communicate with him, or influence him. We
part--utterly and entirely."

"Eugen! Impossible! _Herrgott!_ Impossible!" cried I, coming to a stop,
and looking incredulously at him. That I did not believe. "Impossible!"
I repeated, beneath my breath.

"By faith men can move mountains," he retorted.

This, then, was the flavoring which made the cup so intolerable.

"You say that that is and must be wrong under all circumstances," said
Eugen, eying me steadily.

I paused. I could almost have found it in my heart to say, "Yes, I do."
But my faith in and love for this man had grown with me; as a daily
prayer grows part of one's thoughts, so was my confidence in him part of
my mind. He looked as if he were appealing to me to say that it must be
wrong, and so give him some excuse to push it aside. But I could not.
After wavering for a moment, I answered:

"No. I am sure you have sufficient reasons."

"I have. God knows I have."

In the silence that ensued my mind was busy. Eugen Courvoisier was not a
religious man, as the popular meaning of religious runs. He did not say
of his misfortune, "It is God's will," nor did he add, "and therefore
sweet to me." He said nothing of whose will it was; but I felt that had
that cause been a living thing--had it been a man, for instance, he
would have gripped it and fastened to it until it lay dead and impotent,
and he could set his heel upon it.

But it was no strong, living, tangible thing. It was a breathless
abstraction--a something existing in the minds of men, and which they
call "Right!" and being that--not an outside law which an officer of
the law could enforce upon him; being that abstraction, he obeyed it.

As for saying that b