“No. Sometimes I’ve felt a queer homesickness in these dying muscles that thirst for the open world, but I’ve no time to think of mountain or lake, or hear the call of field or sea—-Ruth, I can only think of you! I have but one interest, but one desire of soul and body—that you may be happy. I would be free, not because I fear death or covet life”—his voice sank to a broken whisper—“but that I might crawl around the earth on my hands and knees and confess my shame and sorrow that I deserted you.”
“Hush, hush, my love; I forgive you,” she moaned.
“Yes, I know; but all time and eternity will be too short for my repentance.”
The woman was sobbing bitterly.
“These prison bars,” he went on with strange elation, “are nothing. The old queer instinct of asceticism within me, that made a preacher of an Epicurean and an athlete, has come back to its kingship. Its sublime authority is now supreme. I despise life, and have learned to live. There is no task so hard but that the king within demands a harder. There can be no pain so fierce and cruel but that it calls my soul to laughter. As for Death—”
His voice sank to dreamy notes.
“She who comes at last with velvet feet and the tender touch of a pure woman’s hand—her face is radiant, her voice low music. She will speak the end of strife and doubt, and loose these bars. With friendly smile she will show me the path among the stars, until I find the face of God. I’ll tell Him I’m a son of His who lost the way on life’s great plain, and that I am sorry for all the pain I’ve caused to those who loved me.”
Ruth felt through the bars and grasped his hand, sobbing.
“Don’t, don’t, don’t, Frank! Stop! I cannot endure it!”
The warden turned away to hide his face.