He sat up. And then he saw that the figure was by him once more, close to him now. It was still a shadow, dark and undecipherable, in spite of the flushed twilight of the coming day.
“Why did you save Dennis?” it asked.
The torture shot through him again, more poignant than ever to his racked spirit. He bowed his head, and felt the drops of agony grow thick on his forehead. But still he made no answer.
He raised his eyes, as if in obedience to a command, and saw the lines of cloud red in the dawn. And the voice spoke:
“See where Christ’s blood streams in the firmament. One drop would save your soul. But you would never call on Him, Colin, because you hate Him.”
He could not answer, so rending was the torture. He waited, writhing and stiffened against what was coming.
“Why did you save Dennis?” asked the voice.
At that the full fierceness of mortal agony was let loose on him, and that agony was eternal: it had existed before ever time began. The evil of all that he had done, the utter depravity of his soul, with its lust for hate and its hate of love, was torn and wrenched by the inflexible power of that which had made him so lightly vault over the parapet of the sluice, and strike out across the icy water towards Dennis. With all his force, with all his will he resisted, but his force faded, his will faltered and collapsed, and with a wail of pain he surrendered.
“I saved him because I loved him,” he cried. “I give in, you devil from the pit. For Christ’s sake don’t torture me any more!”
The rending agony in which he writhed ceased, the strain relaxed. Blinded with sweat and tears he looked at the figure that stood close to him now, but still it was no more than a shadow to him.