Tragic as a rash act, such as Mark was contemplating, is when successful, an interruption brings with it an inevitable bathos; when he first felt that grasp on his arm, he thought himself in the power of a German policeman, and, prepared as he was a moment before to face a sudden death, he quailed before the prospect of some degrading and complicated official process; it was almost a relief to see instead his bitterest enemy! He made no attempt at resistance or escape--perhaps life seemed more tolerable after all now he had been brought back to it; he went meekly back with Vincent, who still held his arm firmly, and they reached the Laufenplatz without another word. The little terrace above the Rhine was almost dark, the only light came in a reflected form from a street lamp round the corner, and they had to pick their way round the octagonal stone fountain and between the big iron salmon cages, to some seats under the five bare elms by the railings. There Vincent sat down to recover breath, for the scene he had just gone through was beginning to tell upon him, and he was overcome by a feeling of faintness which made him unable to speak for some moments. Meanwhile Mark stood opposite by the railings waiting sullenly, until Vincent rose at last and came to his side; he spoke low and with difficulty, but, in spite of the torrent roaring over the rocks below, Mark heard every word. 'I suppose,' Vincent began, 'I need not tell you why I wished to see you?' 'No,' said Mark; 'I know.' 'From your manner on the bridge just now,' continued Holroyd, relentlessly, 'it looked almost as if you wished to avoid a meeting--why should you? I told you I wished my authorship to be kept a secret, and you sheltered it with your own name. Very few friends would have done that!' 'You have the right to indulge in this kind of pleasantry,' said the tortured Mark; 'I know that--only be moderate if you can. Cut the sneers and the reproaches short, and give me the finishing stroke; do you suppose I don't _feel_ what I am?' 'Reproaches are ungenerous, of course,' retorted Holroyd; 'I am coming to the "finishing stroke," as you call it, in my own time; but first, though you may consider it bad taste on my part, I want to know a little more about all this. If it's painful to you, I'm sorry--but you scarcely have the right to be sensitive.' 'Oh, I have no rights!' said Mark, bitterly. 'I'll try not to abuse mine,' said Vincent, more calmly, 'but I can't understand why you did this--you could write books for yourself, what made you covet mine?'