"I finally regained the use of my senses. I jumped from my saddle, and I know not how, reached the bottom of the quarry. The horse had been killed outright. In a red pool lay a gasping, shattered man. It was an old friend of mine, who had been kind to me in my early days in Dorking. I called him. He opened his eyes.
"'What!' he cried, 'it is not over?'
"I questioned him in vain.
"'It is not over! It is not over!' he repeated in vain despair, 'I shall have to go through with it again!'
"Not knowing what to do or say, I climbed to the top of the bank and called for help. A farmer hastened to the spot. With infinite care, the wounded man was lifted into a cart. By some miracle he had escaped without mortal injury. Two months later he was in full convalescence. He suspected before long that I had witnessed his leap, and my embarrassment when he questioned me about our encounter at the bottom of the quarry only confirmed him in his idea. One day, he could no longer keep from speaking.
"'You do not believe it was an accident, do you?' he said, looking me squarely in the eyes.
"'What do you mean?' I asked, avoiding the question.
"'I mean that I must have passed close by you on my way to the quarry.'
"'Yes,' I said, with a sudden resolve to tell the truth.
"'You know my secret. I am sure, my dear child, that you will keep it. Death would not take me. I shall go on living. But since there is now one human being before whom I can pour out the overflow of my misery, and since that one is yourself, for whom I have so long felt the warmest friendship, I will tell you all.'