is stronger than he. He does not subordinate it to himself,
but is subordinated by it. He can rebel against it, but he cannot
overthrow it. He can fly from it, but he cannot escape it.

This sublime and mysterious power had at last obtained complete
ascendency in the soul of David Corson. He no longer argued and he no
longer resisted. He saw no way of escape from the spiritual anaconda
which was tightening its folds around him.

This was all the more strange because the way to the satisfaction of the
irrepressible hunger of his heart was now open. Pepeeta's husband was
dead, and although he was not innocent of a great crime, he was at least
not a murderer. Pepeeta still loved him, if she were still alive. Of
this he had no more doubt than of his love for her. Why then did he thus
give up to despair? Why did he not fly to her arms and claim from life
that happiness which had hitherto escaped his grasp?

He did not try to solve these problems, nor to comprehend his own
despair. He only knew that he had been baffled at every turn of his life
by powers with which he was unable to cope, and that he was tired of the
struggle. He would give himself up to the mighty stream of events and be
borne along. If he was exercising any volition in the choice of the path
he was following, he was doing it unconsciously. That path was leading
him direct to the harbor. It was a pathway well-worn by tired feet like
his own.

The miserable creatures who had preceded him seemed to have formed a
sort of wake by which he was being drawn along to that "wandering grave"
in the deep sea. At last he reached the water's edge, and started as he
heard the waves splashing among the wooden piles. The soft, sibilant
sounds seemed like kisses on the lips of the victims of their
treacherous caresses.

The deed of which they whispered seemed but the logical conclusion of
his entire career. He put his foot upon the edge of the wharf and looked
down into the dark abyss.

It was at this critical instant that his faithful friend extended his
hand to save him; but at the same instant another and mightier hand was
also extended from the sky.

From a remote part of the Battery a sound cut the silent air. It was a
human voice, masculine, powerful, tender and pleading, lifted in a
sacred song. That sound was the first element of the objective world
which had penetrated the consciousness of the tortured and desperate
would-be suicide.

He turned and listened