re was a deeper psychological reason than that for
walking, instead of availing himself of the swiftest method of escape.
He was not fleeing from justice or pursuit. When the mind is in torture
and the spirit is torn, the instinctive effort is to bodily activity, to
force physical exertion, as if there must be compensation for the mental
strain in the weariness of nature. The priest obeyed this instinct, as
if it were possible to walk away from himself, and went on, at first
with almost no sense of weariness.

And the shame! He could not bear to be observed. It seemed to him that
every one would see in his face that he was a recreant priest, perjured
and forsworn. And so great had been his spiritual pride! So removed he
had deemed himself from the weakness of humanity! And he had yielded at
the first temptation, and the commonest of all temptations! Thank God,
he had not quite yielded. He had fled. And yet, how would it have been
if Ruth Leigh had not had a moment of reserve, of prudent repulsion! He
groaned in anguish. The sin was in the intention. It was no merit of his
that he had not with a kiss of passion broken his word to his Lord and
lost his soul.

It was remorse that was driving him along the avenue; no room for any
other thought yet, or feeling. Perhaps it is true in these days that
the old-fashioned torture known as remorse is rarely experienced except
under the name of detection. But it was a reality with this highly
sensitive nature, with this conscience educated to the finest edge of
feeling. The world need never know his moment's weakness; Ruth Leigh
he could trust as he would have trusted his own sister to guard his
honor--that was all over--never, he was sure, would she even by a look
recall the past; but he knew how he had fallen, and the awful measure of
his lapse from loyalty to his Master. And how could he ever again stand
before erring, sinful men and women and speak about that purity which
he had violated? Could repentance, confession, penitence, wipe away this
stain?

As he went on, his mind in a whirl of humiliation, self-accusation,
and contempt, at length he began to be conscious of physical weariness.
Except the biscuit and the glass of wine at the hospital, he had taken
nothing since his light luncheon. When he came to the Harlem Bridge
he was compelled to rest. Leaning against one of the timbers and half
seated, with the softened roar of the city in his ears, the lights
gleaming on the