resist, that he had not so lost
self-control that his only safety lay in flight.

The strength was that of a man who combats desperately with some
ailment which threatens his life. 'Am I then of those who have no will
power? Will is that whereby men raise themselves above the multitude;
let me give proofs now that my claims are not those of a charlatan.' He
passed six hours in his room.

Thyrza would go to the library at eleven, or a little after. She was
there now. She would find the front door closed against her. She would
go round to the house, and make inquiry of Mrs. Butterfield. Perhaps
she would wait for him.

Yes, she would wait for him. She was sitting in the library, on the
chest which he had offered her for a seat, alone, disappointed.

Disappointed. More than that. Why had she come on Tuesday, the second
morning? Why had she desired to come yet again? Had he read her face
truly?

He knew, he knew with miserable certainty, that she did not love Grail.
She had not known what love was; a child, so merely a child! But when
love once was born in her, would it not be for life and death?

He was lying on the sofa again, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Moisture
stood upon his forehead, formed into beads and ran off. His torment was
that of the rack. He believed that Thyrza had at least begun to love
him. Madman that he was, he _hoped_ it! Thyrza's love was a thing for
which one would dare uttermost perdition, the blind leap once taken.
Yes, but that leap he would not take; he was on firm ground; he knew
what honour meant; he acknowledged the sanctity of obligations between
man and man.

But if she loved _him_, was it right that she should wed Grail?
Obligations, forsooth! Was it not his first duty to save her from a
terrible self-sacrifice? What could overrule love? There was time to
intervene; four days more, and it would be too late for ever--for ever.
What hideous things might result from conscientiousness such as he was
now striving to preserve.

'Thyrza! She is waiting there, waiting for _me_ to come to her. She
trembles at every sound, thinking it _my_ footstep. If her anguish be
but the shadow of mine--'

He sprang up, ghastly. He had not closed his eyes through the night,
but had lain, and walked about the room, in torment. Desire, jealousy,
frenzy of first passion, the first passion of his life; no pang was
spared him. Oh, how had it grown so suddenly! He had imagined love such
as this for some s