"Dolores, Sergeant Burker met with an accident this morning on parade.
He is dead. Let us never refer to him again."
She fainted.
I spent that night also in meditation, questioning myself and examining my soul—with every honest endeavour to be not a self-deceiver.
I came to the conclusion that I had acted rightly and in the only way in which a gentleman could act. I had snatched Dolores from his foul clutches, I had punished him without depriving Dolores of my protection, and I had avenged the stain on my honour.
"You have committed a treacherous cowardly murder," whispered the Fiend in my ear.
"You are a liar," I replied. "I did not fear the man and I took this course solely on account of Dolores. I was strong enough to accept this position—and to risk the accusation of murder, from my conscience, from the Devil, or from man."
Any doubt I might otherwise have had was forestalled and inhibited by the obvious Fate that placed Burker in the one spot favourable to my scheme of punishment.
God had willed it?
God had not prevented it.
Surely God was consenting unto it….