"Well, Indiana," said Stillwater, "aren't you going to drink 'Godspeed' to them?" He held the glass to her lips, raising her head from his breast. Their eyes were all upon her,—Lord Canning's tenderly anxious, his uncle's laughing, Mrs. Bunker's significant, and Glen's suspicious and jealous.
"Godspeed to them!" she repeated, gaily raising her glass.
When they finally arose from supper, Glen immediately disappeared. "I must get away from that awful white light," he thought, walking restlessly through the dark woods. "It's beating on my brain and driving me mad." His soul foreboded very truly that Indiana was lost to him. The soul is our Cassandra. It mourns and prophecies, while the heart is forever holding a carnival. A young girl decking herself with flowers for a fete. There is a shrouded form behind her in the mirror. It whispers, "Those flowers are blossoms of death. The fete for which you are robing, is a funeral." But, unhearing, unseeing, thinking of lovers and dancing, she decks herself in the mirror, a song on her lips.
Scarcely knowing where his feet were leading him, he found himself on the bridge directly over the falls. "She never notices me—I don't exist for her!" He looked down into the falls. "Living's only a fever after all—a mad fever of longing and jealousy. I'd gladly end it, down there—if it wasn't for the folks. Ambition! glory! I'd fling them all to the winds for the choice of pressing her little yellow head to my heart, just once, to still this horrible throbbing! If I had been brought home wounded and dying, she'd have sobbed beside me, and I'd have comforted her in my weak arms. Then she might have said, 'I love you, Glen dear!' just to make me happy—before the end. I would have fallen peacefully asleep then, blessing her. A happy death, to have died for my country, holding her to my breast, as my life bled away. Better than this—this fever called 'living'."
A hand was laid on his shoulder. "We're going home, my boy."
"Oh, I'm sorry"—he pressed his hand to his forehead—"I'm sorry that you were obliged to look for me."
Stillwater scrutinized Glen's set, white face. "The Englishmen are going. Things will come your way—soon."
"They'll never come my way," sighed Glen, "except, perhaps, when I've ceased to care."
"Nonsense!"
"It seems to me that nothing is worth what I've been suffering—not even Indiana."