Scarcely knowing where his feet were leading him, he found himself on the bridge directly over the falls. "She never notices me—I don’t exist for her!" He looked down into the falls. "Living’s only a fever after all—a mad fever of longing and jealousy. I’d gladly end it, down there—if it wasn’t for the folks. Ambition! glory! I’d fling them all to the winds for the choice of pressing her little yellow head to my heart, just once, to still this horrible throbbing! If I had been brought home wounded and dying, she’d have sobbed beside me, and I’d have comforted her in my weak arms. Then she might have said, ’I love you, Glen dear!’ just to make me happy—before the end. I would have fallen peacefully asleep then, blessing her. A happy death, to have died for my country, holding her to my breast, as my life bled away. Better than this—this fever called ’living’." A hand was laid on his shoulder. "We’re going home, my boy." "Oh, I’m sorry"—he pressed his hand to his forehead—"I’m sorry that you were obliged to look for me." Stillwater scrutinized Glen’s set, white face. "The Englishmen are going. Things will come your way—soon." "They’ll never come my way," sighed Glen, "except, perhaps, when I’ve ceased to care." "Nonsense!" "It seems to me that nothing is worth what I’ve been suffering—not even Indiana." "She isn’t," assured Stillwater, unhesitatingly, delighted at this conclusion. "Turn over a new leaf. Show her you’re indifferent. She’ll think all the more of you." Lord Stafford was patting the ponies, while Haller arranged the harness. "If you’ll be kind enough to jump in, Lord Stafford," cried Mrs. Bunker, "we may reach home in time for breakfast! Come now, Haller, you’ve been fumbling long enough with that harness!" Haller grinned at Lord Stafford. "That woman’s full of life," he remarked, "I admire her." "The devil you do!" exclaimed Lord Stafford. As they started they all sung "On the Banks of the Wabash." The moon was fading when they embarked on ’The Indiana.’ "The lake presents an unearthly appearance in this silver twilight," remarked Lord Canning. "It is vanishing quickly. There’s still a parting gleam touching the dark pines here and there—lingering like the last caress of a dying hand. Everything is becoming vague. The world is fading away from us. How fascinating—these last few moments before the dawn. Ah, it is breaking! That suggestion of dark shore—this pale light on the black lake. Why, we are on the River Styx. Haller doesn’t look unlike Charon. I can see you dimly, Miss Stillwater—a little ghost in your white cloak. We are all ghosts." He lowered his voice. "I am positive that Mr. Masters sitting there, with his mandolin, could not present a more tragic figure if his eternal punishment were to play for the amusement of all the shades crossing to Hades!"