I say I crawled; and that's what I did do, on one hand and my knees, the fingers of my broken arm trailing over the white marble floor, with each finger making a horrible red mark, when all at once I stopped, drew myself up stiffly, and leaned trembling and dizzy against the wall, trying hard not to faint; for I found that I wasn't alone, and that in place of getting away--crawling into some hole to lie down and die, I was that low-spirited and weak--I had come to a place where one of the women was, for there, upon her knees, was Lizzy Green, sobbing and crying, and tossing her hands about in the agony of her poor heart. I was misty and faint and confused, you know; but perhaps it was something like instinct made me crawl to Lizzie's favourite place; for it was not intended. She did not see me, for her back was my way; and I did not mean her to know I was there; for in spite of my giddiness, I seemed to feel that she had learned all the news about our attempt, and that she was crying about poor Harry Lant. "And he deserves to be cried for, poor chap," I said to myself, for I forgot all about my own pains then; but all the same something very dark and bitter came over me, as I wished that she had been crying instead for poor me. "But then he was always so bright, and merry, and clever," I thought, "and just the man who would make his way with a woman; while I--Please God, let me die now!" I whispered very softly directly after, "for I'm only a poor, broken, helpless object, in everybody's way!" It seemed just then as if the hot weak tears that came running out of my eyes made me clearer, and better able to hear all that the sobbing girl said, as I leaned closer and closer to the wall; while, as to the sharp pain every word she said gave me, the doll dead aching of my broken arm was nothing. "Why--why did they let him go?" the poor girl sobbed; "as if there were not enough to be killed without him; and him so brave, and stout, and handsome, and true. My poor heart's broken! What shall I do?" Then she sobbed again; and I remember thinking that unless some help came, if poor Harry Lant died of his wounds, she would soon go to join him in that land where there is to be no more suffering and pain. Then I listened, for she was speaking again. "If I could only have died for him, or been with, or--O, what have I done, that I should be made to suffer so?" I remember wondering whether she was suffering more then than I was; for, in spite of my jealous despairing feeling, there was something of sorrow mixed up with it for her. For she had always seemed to like poor Harry's merry ways, when I never could get a smile from her; and she'd go and sit with Mrs Bantem for long enough when Harry was there, while if by chance I went, it seemed like the signal for her to get up, and say her young lady wanted her, when most likely Harry would walk back with her; and I went and told it all to my pipe.