"Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. She had told Emile. "Any price was better than your head. “I shall not speak,” he said, “now or at any other time. She was nearly dead. Believe me, the bitterness of it has almost departed, crushed out of me together with much of the weariness and sorrow I brought with me here by the nameless glory of these lonely months.
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