And the young man wept over the letters he held in his hand. At last he aroused himself.
“Once more I will write to her,” he said; “I will tell her how, apart from all men, visited by none—for none can reach me till they know the secret of my path—I have worked and waited, waited and worked.
“Once every three months I go out to carry the gold I have gathered, and to place it where it will not only be safe but draw an interest that adds to it all the time. And once every three months I tread streets where temptation glitters on every side of me; yet I turn from it all with loathing, and hurry back to my solitude, where my only company is a memory, ever present, ever dear, of her.
“To-morrow I shall go again, and the deposit I carry now will make my all—full three hundred thousand dollars. I should be satisfied, but what else can I do till I am recalled? Work keeps down sad thoughts; work keeps hope alive; work gives me life and strength to wait.”
He drew up to a rough table made of slabs hewed out by himself, took writing materials from a shelf overhead, and for a long time wrote steadily.
He was explaining all his life to her—all his life in those dreary hills, and praying that she would bid him come back to her with a renewed and nobler life, chastened by toil and thought, made pure by temperance in its most severe demands.
At last his letter was finished, folded, enveloped, and then he drew from his finger a massive ring with a sapphire in the set. Deeply engraved in the stone was the symbol—two hearts pierced with an arrow.
Dropping the red wax, which he had lighted at the candle, on his letter, he impressed the seal, and it was ready for its far away journey.
Now—long after midnight—he threw himself down on his blankets to sleep.