"I cannot stay here," said the Body at last; "the place stifles me. I am frightened to stay. The path outside is clear and well trodden; it must lead somewhere, and as this chapel is here, and as the lamp is lit, a village, or at least a house, cannot be far off."
The Will looked at him.
"Do not go," he said earnestly.
"Why?"
"I do not know. But do not let us part. I dare not leave here. I feel as though this were our one safe haven to-night."
The Body moved to the door and opened it.
"I am going. And—and—I am going, too, because I am tired both of you and the Soul. There is only one way for me, I see, and I go that way. Farewell."
The door closed. The Will was alone. For a few moments he stood, smiling scornfully. With a sudden despairing gesture he ran to the door, flung it open, and peered into the darkness.
He could see no one; could hear no steps. His long beseeching cry was drowned among these solitudes. Slowly he re-closed the door; slowly walked across the stone flags; and with folded arms stood looking upon the altar, dyed crimson with the glow from the great lamp which hung midway in the nave.
There was a choir-stall to the right. Here he sat, for a time glad merely to be at rest.