He was aroused by psychological disturbance. Why should he immolate himself upon the altar of a principle that one half of the Christian world would consider a mere madness? And how if, after all, it _was_ madness? How if he was self-deceived?—actuated by fanaticism, and not by legitimate heroism? _She_ whose whole soul had glowed at the mere mention of _true_ magnanimity—_she_ whose approbation had been the ardently desired reward of his sacrifice—the object of his young heart’s passionate aspiration—how had _she_ regarded him? As a hero or a fanatic! How had she received him in his new aspect? Not as he had often fondly prevised—not with a faithful, loving clasp, strengthening his hands—not with a fervent, inspiring gaze, imparting courage and energy to his soul—not with approval and sympathy, and faithful cordial concurrence, confirming his faith—arming him for any conflict—strengthening him for any sacrifice. Oh! no, no; far otherwise. She had heard him with repelling hand and averted eye, and scorn, and loathing, and repulsion, that had left him bitterly disappointed, humbled, weakened, prostrated, _paralyzed_ by self-doubt! Was she right? Was he a madman? Oh! there had been an element of worship and of aspiration in his love for India. And was this idol a mere stone, upon which he had broken himself in vain? He could not bear to think so. He was willing to believe himself a fool or a madman, so that her image remained undimmed, unspotted, unchanged in its shrine—so that she was still a perfect woman, angel, goddess! And was this not truly so? Was her decision not really just, and was he not indeed a fanatic? To _believe_ this, would end the struggle and the agony at once. To _confess_ this, would restore harmony and happiness to the grievously-disturbed family circle, and peace and joy to himself and his India! How easy to step down from his pedestal of principle, frankly confess it to have been a false position, taken in a fit of generous, youthful enthusiasm; to jest over it with his friends—_friends recovered by that step_; to call himself Don Quixote the younger, laugh at the matter, and dismiss it to oblivion. And then India! This beautiful, bewildering girl would be his own in five days. That vision whelmed him in vague, intense delirium. _Would_ it be so easy to step from his post, to abjure his principles, to silence his conscience? No! Even amid the intoxicating dream of his beautiful India’s love, his stern soul answered, No! He knew that he had _not_ taken a false position—the Tempter could not persuade him that he had done so. He knew himself to be right; he knew that he was not self-deceived. Not even now, in this hour of bitter trial, would his moral sense be so confused. In his conscience, the dividing line between right and wrong was too clearly, distinctly, sharply defined, and there was no possibility of confusing or mistaking the boundary. And so the mental sophistry of the temptation ended.