The voice, in the dark room, shrilled into a febrile transport; the weak hand was re-playing its ecstatic deed. And the watcher sat without a word or sign, and listened—listened.
“I heard his soul go from him like a hiss of fire—and then the storm burst upon me. It flogged me in a moment into reason; I saw the crevasse stretching at my feet; and I heaved him towards it, and heard him go down. Knife and all he went; and after them I cast the lantern, and then there was nothing more—only my love, my love’s safety, the guerdon of my red hands.
“It was that one thought which saved me, while I cowered and let the storm roll over. Then I returned by the way I had come. I don’t know what guided my footsteps: I knew nothing more until I awoke in my bed to light, and the blast of that mad memory.”
He paused a moment, while his soul seemed to fume on his lips: then burst out once more:—
“A curse upon those who forced the deed upon me—who would have made a wanton of my idol! They are to blame—they are to blame, not I! I struck to keep God’s law immaculate—I was all alone, while He slept; and I struck to vindicate His law. And He awoke, and damned me for my deed—no palm of martyrdom; but torture, the endless torture of a haunted wickedness—agues of sickness and terror—threats, menaces—a guilty conscience. Am I guilty? O, Gaston! where is heaven? ... I lost her that I might save her: her shrine was my heart, and I bloodied it. What she had been to me, not you nor anyone can realise—saint, sweetheart, loveliness—too divine for passion, and too passionate for heaven—God’s earnest to me of immortal raptures. Why, I lived in her—worshipped her. O, my God, my God, Gaston! If she was more to me than heaven, was that a just rebuke to me to make her foul? ... You all know now, I say, what I knew then. Put yourself in my place—that man—filthy iniquity—no grace of truth or honour—a ruttish beast. O! he was your friend, I know—forgive me—what a friend! I had been stone till then—till it was whispered to me what he designed—stone, with a heart of fire. Perhaps I had built a little on the thought of that year’s respite—a year in which to hold him at bay while we prayed and prayed for God to intervene. O, a cry to stone!—no hope, no response. When I killed him, I plucked the dagger from my own heart to plunge it into his. Was not that good, even then—to send him to his account, saving his soul those last two mortal sins? Tell me, Gaston, was it not good?”
“It was good and just, Louis—to lose her for ever that you might save her for ever.”
The wild shape on the bed ceased its convulsive transports, while it seemed to meditate the answer. Presently it spoke again, but feebly, as if in a gathering exhaustion:—
“Yes, I have lost her for ever—you mean it, indeed, Gaston?”
“He was her husband, Louis. Will you confess to her? Could she marry you if you did? Could you marry her if you did not? You did right, I say. I take the burden of your conscience as a light one, and commit you to rest.”
“Gaston!”