What would she think of him? What would she think of his desertion of her at that supreme moment?
Can a woman ever forgive such an act of desertion? Could Beatrice ever forgive his turning away from her love?
Was he beginning to regret that he had fled away from the loveliest vision that had ever come before his eyes?
Did Saint Anthony ever wish that he had had another chance?
If for a single moment Harold Wynne had an unworthy thought, assuredly it did not last longer than a single moment.
“Whatever may happen now—whether she forgives me or forsakes me—thank God—thank God!”
This was what his heart was crying out all the time that he walked along the road with bowed head. He felt that he had been strong enough to save her—to save himself.
The procession had scarcely passed over more than a quarter of a mile of the road, when a vehicle appeared some distance ahead.
“Steady,” said the sergeant. “It’s the Major in his trap. I sent a mounted man for him. You’ll be in trouble about the handcuffs, Jonas, my man.”
“Maybe the murderer would keep his hands together to oblige us,” suggested the constable.