When nightfall came, Osric was here alone, and he did a very singular thing.
He lit a lamp, and placed it in his window; then he took it away in a very undecided fashion; then he replaced it again; then he took it away, and finally replaced it.
"The die is cast," he said.
Two roads lay before him,—it was an awful crisis in his life,—two roads, utterly different, which could only lead to most opposite issues, and the strife was which to choose. The way was yet open.
But to enter either he must break his faith. Here lay the sting to his generous heart.
The one road led to honour, to riches, to power, to glory even; and had all which could delight a young warrior's mind, but coupled with the support of foul tyranny, the uprooting of the memory of his kindred and their woes, and the breaking of his newly-pledged faith to the outlaws.
The other road led to a life of obscurity and poverty, perhaps to a death of ignominy, and certainly began with an act of treachery towards one who, however cruel to others, had loved and trusted him, of which the ring he bore was a token and a pledge.
It was when he thought of this that he withdrew the light.
Then came the remembrance of the sufferers in the foul dens below.
"It is the cause of God, and truth, and freedom, and justice, and all that is holy;" and he replaced the light.