Whatever there was of passion in the preacher—and he was full of it, to the finger-tips—leaped to the front. He trembled from head to foot; those soft arms seemed to draw him beyond all resistance. With a cry he stepped towards her—then stopped. The habit of a lifetime, in this supreme moment, was not minded to stand idly by, taking no part in the struggle; were his sins against God so slight that he dared add one more to their number? He moaned in the agony of repression. And down the girl's crimsoned cheeks ran tears of helplessness. The candle went out and left them in darkness.
"Greta," said the preacher at last, "his wife will be waiting up for him." The quiet voice, the commonplace words, sounded odd after the stress that had preceded them.
"Whose wife?" she whispered, not daring to acknowledge the certain answer.
"Griff's. My way lies plain, lass; I must go and tell her." He went out to the stair-head; Greta followed him into the lamplight.
"You shan't—you shan't! No one need know. No one saw you. Perhaps he isn't dead, after all, Gabriel? You fell and lost your senses, you say. It may have been all a dream—a kind of nightmare—and you said there was no body to be seen. We will wait, and if"—she crept close and looked at him with horror-stricken eyes—"if an accident did happen, we must go away together, you and I—I shan't mind it a bit, dear; we will begin in a new country, and——" She had forgotten her father in the first wild panic for Gabriel's safety.
"No, Greta. My way lies clear, and you can't turn me. First to tell his wife, and then to give myself up—it's as plain as can be."
"And what of me?" cried the girl. "Don't you understand that there are two to reckon for now? For your own peace of mind you must go—but what of mine?"
The tears rose in the preacher's eyes.
"Lass, don't make it too hard to bear. I am not fit to claim you, and you'll be well rid of a scoundrel. Let me go, and have done with it."