He lay before the open front of the chapel and knew that his adventure was over, that he could not do the thing that he had highly determined. He saw the future with clear eyes. He told himself that if he could not die for his wife, it must be that he did not love her; that to go back to her was, therefore, to chain himself to a woman that he did not love, to spoil the life of a man that did love her, to ruin the life of a woman that he himself had promised to love. It was useless to imagine that he might live and leave her, for he knew that if he left her she, unable to marry von Klausen, would marry no one and would come to what Stainton believed to be a worse estate. He knew that if he lived, he would have to live beside her and not with her, a despised protector. If passion should once or twice more flicker in its socket, it would be an animal passion that he detested and that would make Muriel and him detest each other. The glamour of their miracle-love for each other was dispelled. They must henceforth see with straight eyes. She would look upon him as an unclean old man; he would see in her the death to his hope of physical immortality; and the three, von Klausen, Muriel, and he would share a secret, a secret of which they might never rid themselves. He, unwanted, why did he not go? He saw Muriel grow into a starved and thwarted woman; he saw himself sink into a terrified and lonely and loathed old age. His voice broke out in a shrill sob; but he knew that he would have to live. The old dread had conquered. He sat up. Possessed by a fear that the entire summit of the mountain might fall with him, he began to drag himself down the way that he had so carelessly ascended. It was a hideous descent. There were points in it that he could scarcely believe he had managed to pass. He came down in thrice the time that he had gone up, and he came down much of the way on his hands and knees, shaking like a frightened child. They were standing by the parapet when he staggered, panting, toward them: Muriel's black eyes shining with tears, and a light in von Klausen's boyish face that made the husband wince. "Why, Jim," said Muriel, "how muddy your clothes are. You look perfectly ridiculous." Stainton was thinking: "I must get her away. I must get myself away from this awful place. I must take her with me. I am afraid to be alone. I must get her away." What he said was: "Yes. Come away from that wall. Don't stand so near that wall! Yes, I had a little tumble." They both started forward. "Are you hurt?" they asked, and they asked it together. "No--no; I'm all right. Quite all right." He looked at Muriel. "You can't fix it up?" She shook her head. He looked at von Klausen. "You"--he wet his lips with his thick tongue--"you won't change your prejudices?" The Austrian flushed. "I cannot change my religion," said he. Stainton clumsily drew his watch from his pocket.