“Oh!”
Horace North reeled against the wall, and rested there as he uttered that piteous groan; for, like a flash of lightning, the ray of memory had shot into his darkened brain, and he saw once more the wretched idol he had worshipped gazing wildly at him with starting eyes—she, the woman he had set upon a pinnacle, grovelling before him in her shame! The moment before, the lady of his frank, honest love; the next moment revealed to him as low in mind, as degraded as some miserable rustic wench, ready to accept the kisses of the first man who called her “dear!”
“Am I going mad?” he groaned. “Poor Salis! Poor Mary Salis! They must never know. And poor me! Fool! blind idiot! But I loved her,” he moaned: “and I thought her so sweet and pure and true—a woman for whom I would have shed my heart’s best blood—a woman for whom I—Pah! I must not stand puling here! Blood? Yes, blood! The brute! He’s strong as a horse.”
He took out a pocket-handkerchief, doubled it, and roughly bandaged his head; for it was bleeding from a cut at the back.
“Clear my brain,” he muttered; “I must not stand here. That place left open! Is Moredock there?”
He felt his way to the door; and, as he stepped cautiously along, his foot kicked against something which jingled on the tiled floor.
He felt about, touched the surplice which had been dragged down and entangled his legs; and, as he snatched it away, the key jingled once more, and he caught it up.
He opened and relocked the door after he had passed out, breathing more freely as he stood in the cool, dark night.
“Moredock!” he whispered. “Are you there?”
There was no reply, but he did not stir; for a curious feeling of confusion attacked him once more, and he put his hand to his head to try and master his thoughts.