I went into the garden, and strode up and down the walks at a furious rate. My anger gave place to the most profound melancholy. Edmee, proud and daring, seemed to me more desirable than ever. It is the nature of all desire to be excited and nourished by opposition. I felt that I had offended her, and that she did not love me, that perhaps she would never love me; and, without abandoning my criminal resolution to make her mine by force, I gave way to grief at the thought of her hatred of me. I went and leaned upon a gloomy old wall which happened to be near, and, burying my face in my hands, I broke into heart-rending sobs. My sturdy breast heaved convulsively, but tears would not bring the relief I longed for. I could have roared in my anguish, and I had to bite my handkerchief to prevent myself from yielding to the temptation. The weird noise of my stifled sobs attracted the attention of some one who was praying in the little chapel on the other side of the wall which I had chanced to lean against. A Gothic window, with its stone mullions surmounted by a trefoil, was exactly on a level with my head. “Who is there?” asked some one, and I could distinguish a pale face in the slanting rays of the moon which was just rising. It was Edmee. On recognising her I was about to move away, but she passed her beautiful arm between the mullions, and held me back by the collar of my jacket, saying: “Why are you crying, Bernard?” I yielded to her gentle violence, half ashamed at having betrayed my weakness, and half enchanted at finding that Edmee was not unmoved by it. “What are you grieved at?” she continued. “What can draw such bitter tears from you?” “You despise me; you hate me; and you ask why I am in pain, why I am angry!” “It is anger, then, that makes you weep?” she said, drawing back her arm. “Yes; anger or something else,” I replied. “But what else?” she asked. “I can’t say; probably grief, as you suggest. The truth is my life here is unbearable; my heart is breaking. I must leave you, Edmee, and go and live in the middle of the woods. I cannot stay here any longer.” “Why is life unbearable? Explain yourself, Bernard. Now is our opportunity for an explanation.” “Yes, with a wall between us. I can understand that you are not afraid of me now.” “And yet it seems to me that I am only showing an interest in you; and was I not as affectionate an hour ago when there was no wall between us?” “I begin to see why you are fearless, Edmee; you always find some means of avoiding people, or of winning them over with pretty words. Ah, they were right when they told me that all women are false, and that I must love none of them.” “And who told you that? Your Uncle John, I suppose, or your Uncle Walter; or was it your grandfather, Tristan?” “You can jeer--jeer at me as much as you like. It is not my fault that I was brought up by them. There were times, however, when they spoke the truth.”