"You have kept away from me a long time. Perhaps when released from this place you will again avoid me, and I may never have another opportunity like the present. Now, while you have a chance to think, I am going to ask you to face the consequences of your present course. Within an hour after passing out of this cell you will have it in your power to trample on your better nature and stupefy your mind. But now, if you will, you have a chance to use the powers God has given you, and settle finally on your plan of life." "I have already trampled on my manhood--what is worse, I have lost it. I haven't any courage or strength left." "That can scarcely be true of one but little more than twenty. You are to be here in quietness for the next ten days, I learn. It is my intention, so far as it is in my power to bring it about, that you deliberately face the consequences of your present course during this time. By the consequences I do not mean what the world will think of you, but, rather, the personal results of your action--what you must suffer while you are in the world, and what you must suffer when far beyond the world. Egbert, are you pleased with yourself? are you satisfied with yourself?" "I loathe myself." "You can get away from the world--you are away from it now, and soon you will be away from it finally--but you can never get away from yourself. Are you willing to face an eternal consciousness of defeat, failure, and personal baseness?" He shuddered, but was silent. "There is no place in God's pure heaven for the drunkard--the morally loathsome and deformed. Are you willing to be swept away among the chaff and the thorns, and to have, forever, the shameful and humiliating knowledge that you rightfully belong to the rubbish of the universe? Are you willing to have a sleepless memory tell you in every torturing way possible what a noble, happy man you might have been, but would not be? Your power to drown memory and conscience, and stupefy your mind, will last a little while only at best. How are you going to endure the time when you must remember everything and think of everything? These are more important questions than what the world thinks of you." "Have you no pity?" he groaned. "Yes, my heart overflows with pity. Is it not kindness to tell you whither your path is leading? If I had the power I would lay hold of you, and force you to come with me into the path of life and safety," she answered, with a rush of tears to her eyes. Her sympathy touched him deeply, and disarmed her words of all power to awaken resentment. "Mrs. Arnot," he cried, passionately, "I did mean--I did try--to do better when I left this place; but, between my own accursed weakness and the hard-hearted world, I am here again, and almost without hope."