ossible fatal tendency in his acts so irrevocable as to plunge him to
destruction when his head was clear, his blood cool, and a choice lay
open to him. That brilliant young life, that fine face, the tones of
Carlo's voice, swept about Merthyr, accusing him of stupid fatalism.
Grief stopped his answer to the charge; but in his wise mind he knew
Carlo to have surveyed things justly; and that the Fates are within
us. Those which are the forces of the outer world are as shadows to
the power we have created within us. He felt this because it was his
gathered wisdom. Human compassion, and love for the unhappy youth,
crushed it in his heart, and he marvelled how he could have been
paralyzed when he had a chance of interceding. Can a man stay a torrent?
But a noble and fair young life in peril will not allow our philosophy
to liken it to things of nature. The downward course of a fall that
takes many waters till it rushes irresistibly is not the course of any
life. Yet it is true that our destiny is of our own weaving. Carlo's
involvements cast him into extreme peril, almost certain death, unless
he abjured his honour, dearer than a life made precious by love. Merthyr
saw that it was not vanity, but honour; for Carlo stood pledged to lead
a forlorn enterprise, the ripeness of his own scheming. In the imminent
hour Carlo had recognized his position as Merthyr with the wisdom of
years looked on it. That was what had paralyzed the older man, though
he could not subsequently trace the cause. Thinking of the beauty of
the youth, husband of the woman who was to his soul utterly an angel,
Merthyr sat in the anguish of self-accusation, believing that some
remonstrance, some inspired word, might have turned him, and half
dreading to sound his own heart, as if an evil knowledge of his nature
haunted it.

He rose up at last with a cry. The door opened, and Giacinta, Vittoria's
maid, appeared, bearing a lamp. She had been sitting outside, waiting
to hear him stir before she intruded. He touched her cheek kindly, and
thought that one could do little better than die, if need were, in the
service of such a people. She said that her mistress was kneeling. She
wished to make coffee for him, and Merthyr let her do it, knowing the
comfort there is to a woman in the ministering occupation of her hands.
It was soon daylight. Beppo had not come back to the house.

"No one has left the house?" Merthyr asked.

"Not since--" she answered convulsivel