have the chance to resist, to conquer, to impose their will. And
now there was no active part for him. He must wait on, and hold back his
hand from the attack which would give him the appearance of victory, and
which would mean everlasting defeat for him, for Marise, the death and
ruin of what they had tried to be for each other, to build up out of
their life together.

What did he mean by that? Wasn't he fooling himself with words, with
priggish phrases? It was so easy to do that. And he was so mortally
fatigued with this struggle in the dark. He had been thinking about it
so deeply, so desperately, ever since he had faced it there, squarely,
those endless black hours ago. He might have lost his way.

Now, once more, slowly, step by step, once more over the terrible road
that led him here. Perhaps there was another way he had overlooked.
Perhaps this time it would lead him to something less intolerable. Quiet
now, steady, all that he had of courage and honesty and knowledge of
Marise, and of life, and of himself, put to work.

His brain began again to plod up the treadmill it had labored on for so
many black hours. He set himself to get it clear in his own mind,
forcing those fierce, burning thoughts of his into words, as if he had
been speaking aloud. "Now, now here I am. What must I do? What ought I
to do? There must be some answer if I can only think clearly, feel
aright. _What is it that I want?_"

The answer burst from him, as though in a cry of torture from his brain,
his body, his passion, his soul, "_I want Marise!_"

And at this expression of overmastering desire, memory flooded his mind
with a stream of unforgotten pictures of their life together; Marise
facing him at the breakfast table; Marise walking with him in the autumn
woods; Marise with Paul a baby in her arms; Marise, almost unknown then,
the flame-like divinity of her soul only guessed-at, looking into his
eyes as the Campagna faded into darkness below them. "What was it she
asked me then? Whether I knew the way across the dark plain? I was a
confident young fool then. I was sure I could find the way, _with her_.
I've been thinking all these years that we were finding it, step by step
. . . till now. And now, what is it I am afraid of? I'm afraid she finds
herself cramped, wants a fuller existence, regrets . . . no, that's
dodging. There's no use lying to myself. I'm afraid that Marise is in
love with Vincent Marsh. Good God! no! It can't be th