“My God!” he cried out, suddenly, “if I go to-night I'll be deserting her forever, and she will have read me rightly! She would keep the secret; no human power could wrench it from her. She would keep it; and I--I, who have led her to her ruin, would be deserting her as only a coward could! I am beneath contempt. And yet what am I to do? I am what I am--what the damnable forces within me and my ancestors have made me. Napoleon loved, and put aside and cast down for his ambition, and have I not the same right for mine? I am not an emperor, but my ambition, such as it is, is as sweet to me as his was to him. As she says--as the gentle wilting flower says--I'd be miserable, _even with her_, under the wreckage of all these hopes. She knows me; child though she is, she is my superior in many things. She knows that the loss of this thing--now that I've tasted the maddening cup of success, now that the poison of fame and public approval is rioting in my blood--would damn me forever! Accidents of this sort have ruined _weak_ men. _Strong_ men have lived to smile back upon such happenings as the inevitable consequence of the meeting of flame and powder, and have gone to their graves without remorse. I've known such men. I've heard them say that no matter how heavily nature may scourge the conscience of man for theft, for murder, for any other misdeed, it yet deals lightly with this particular offence. And why? Because there can be no charge of deliberation in an act to which passionate youth is led by the very sunshine and music of heaven. And yet I'll lose her. Great God, _I'll actually lose her!_ I can never look into her sweet face again, or kiss the dear lips ever whispering their vows of undying faith until hell opened her eyes to--to my frailty. No, no, I can't desert her; I can't--I simply can't! I _want_ her! I _want_ her. With all my soul, I _want_ her!” There was a step in the hall below, and General Sylvester's excited old voice rose and rang querulously through the still space below: “In the name of Heaven, what's the matter?” he cried. “Come on! You may miss the train as it is! _Come on!_” “One second, General!” Galt cried out. “Wait!” He had not yet decided, he told himself, and yet his cold hand had clutched the handle of his bag. He lifted it up, swung it by his side, and, stepping out into the corridor, peered over the balustrade down the stairs. “We can't wait, man!” the General shouted from the walk outside. “Hurry!” “All right, I'm ready!” and Galt strode rapidly down the stairs, sliding his hand on the walnut railing.