Harcourt cast himself down prone upon the floor, and called upon the name of the Lord, not for pardon—he dared not—but for some means, through however much of suffering for himself, to atone for his sin to Roma.
“I can do nothing! nothing!” he cried. “I have fallen hopelessly into the pit! But with Thee ‘all things are possible.’ Thou holdest in Thine almighty hands the springs of all life and all activity. Oh, make it so that I may be sacrificed, humiliated, destroyed, for her sake, so that she may be happy!”
In his deep despair time passed unheeded. He lay face downward on the floor of his attic, sometimes giving vent to the anguish of his soul in deep groans, sometimes rolling over, but always falling into the same position, face to the floor.
So the wretched night passed, and the morning dawned and found him there.
In the midst of his misery he became conscious that some one was knocking at his door, and had been knocking for some few seconds.
“Who is there?” he called at length, as he slowly rose from the floor.
“It is I, your next neighbor. Are you ill? Can I do anything for you?” inquired a sweet voice from without.
Will Harcourt instantly opened the door, and saw in the uncertain light of the dawn a woman standing there. But whether she was young or old, pretty or plain, he could not tell.
“Oh! you are all in the dark,” she said. “Let me go and bring my candle.”
And she was off like a shot, before Harcourt could speak to prevent her.