“I can bear it no longer, Horace,” he said—for so he called me now—“I am in torment. The desire to see Ayesha once more saps my brain. Without hope I shall go quite mad. And I am strong, I may live another fifty years.”
“What then can you do?” I asked.
“I can take a short road to knowledge—or to peace,” he answered solemnly, “I can die, and die I will—yes, tonight.”
I turned upon him angrily, for his words filled me with fear.
“Leo, you are a coward!” I said. “Cannot you bear your part of pain as—others do?”
“You mean as you do, Horace,” he answered with a dreary laugh, “for on you also the curse lies—with less cause. Well, you are stronger than I am, and more tough; perhaps because you have lived longer. No, I cannot bear it. I will die.”
“It is a crime,” I said, “the greatest insult you can offer to the Power that made you, to cast back its gift of life as a thing outworn, contemptible and despised. A crime, I say, which will bring with it worse punishment than any you can dream; perhaps even the punishment of everlasting separation.”
“Does a man stretched in some torture-den commit a crime if he snatches a knife and kills himself, Horace? Perhaps; but surely that sin should find forgiveness—if torn flesh and quivering nerves may plead for mercy. I am such a man, and I will use that knife and take my chance. She is dead, and in death at least I shall be nearer her.”
“Why so, Leo? For aught you know Ayesha may be living.”
“No; for then she would have given me some sign. My mind is made up, so talk no more, or, if talk we must, let it be of other things.”