Yet he could not go back; it was too late. If death awaited him, there in the grim forest, he must meet the grisly foe as a man, not a puling coward.
A man! Yes, a man whom Cécile, in years to come, might think of not wholly in shame, but with a great pity, as of one who, after many sins, many failures, many mistakes, had tried to redeem the past and expiate his faults—for her sake. If only he could have sent a message!
But that, too, was impossible.
"I think, with your permission, we have gone far enough," observed Lord Denningham affably, as he halted near a small clearing in the wood.
Morice nodded.
He knew not if he had walked one mile or ten, so deep had been his reverie.
And now death stood at his side.
"It is a matter of regret that there is no time to procure seconds," smiled my lord, as he proceeded to divest himself of his coat and walk slowly across the clearing, carefully measuring his paces.
"But I do not think there will be any dispute—afterwards."
"No," replied Morice dully.