Gervase had many renewed impulses of rebellion as he waked and watched during that long night. He was tempted to go away to the end of the world, to disappear into the darkness, and leave them--to repent, perhaps, of their attempted coercion. He had moments of resolution to withstand all compromise, to refuse the expedient held out to him, to maintain his own way--followed by sinkings of heart and courage, by questionings with himself who was he that self-sacrifice should be demanded from every one but him? Self-sacrifice for Madeline--that was a very different thing, after all, from yielding up his own enlightened will to the obstinate insistence of his father--or of her father. A man may stand against every other claim upon him, but to prefer his own will to the woman he loves--to sacrifice _her_ rather than do something he did not like--was very different. For her he had vowed to do everything that man could do--to die for her, to live for her, to think of nothing in comparison with her happiness. And this that was required of him was clearly for her happiness. If to release her from himself would make her happy, then it would be time for him to disappear, to go away, and leave no trace, as his father had done; but that would make her miserable. It was Madeline that had to be considered, not himself or his pride, or his preference of one kind of work to another. The young man walked about the lonely library half the night fighting with himself. He had refused his father there--the father of whom he scarcely knew how to think, whether to pity or to blame, whether to approve or censure; but who had now passed away from his horizon, leaving nothing but Madeline,--no other influence, no other hope. Madeline was all he had in the world--no family, no sympathy, no home but her. What could the answer be when the question was to sacrifice her--or himself?