Then his hands twisted themselves together, and his eyes grew hot, bursting. His lips moved as in speaking, though with never a sound. It was the dumbness--the choking dumbness of that emotion which made it so terrible. Such silence could not last--he seemed to feel it could not--and so moved backward out of hearing. There he stood for a little while, leaning against the wall, his hand bound tightly over his forehead, and sighing, so bitterly sighing!--that gasp which bursts from men who have no tears. At length he became calmer, but still stood without the door. He even moved the candle further off, as though afraid its glare, might disturb the sleeper--forgetful that the room was now growing all bright with daybreak. At this moment the clock striking in the hall below made him start. Hastily he took out a paper that he had hid somewhere about him. It was in his own handwriting, all sealed and endorsed. “Not to be opened except in case of my death.” Nevertheless he tore it open--tore likewise an under-cover addressed to his wife, and began to read: “I know you never loved me. From something I overheard on our marriage-day--from other words afterwards let fall in anger by my brother, I also know that you loved”-- He crushed the paper, his eyes seeming literally to flame. Then all the fury died out of them, and left nothing but tenderness. He listened for the soft breathing within--soft and pure. “No!” he murmured. “I will not leave her honour to the chance of written words. No other human being must ever know what I knew. If I live, it is not worse than it was before; and should any harm come to me, let her think I died in ignorance. Better so.” He tore the paper into small strips, and deliberately burnt them one by one in the candle, making a little pile of the ashes, but afterwards scattering them about the fireplace. Then putting out the light--for the house was now filled with the soft grey dawn--Nathanael stepped once more into his wife's room. And still she was sleeping--sleeping at the very crisis of her fate. Her face was composed and sweet, though her hands were still clenched, and one of them almost buried in her loose hair. Her husband stood and looked at her, trying long to keep himself firm and self-restrained, as though she were aware of his presence. But at last the holy helplessness of sleep subdued him. From standing upright he sank gradually down--down--till he was crouching on his knees. Shudder over shudder came over him--sigh after sigh rose up, and was smothered again in his breast. At last even the strong man's strength gave way, and there fell a heavy, silent, burning rain. And all the while the wife slept, and never knew how he loved her!