Within himself there was a crash greater than that
of physical things. It was the truth breaking upon him, truth
surging over him like the waves of a sea, breaking down the
barriers he had set up, inundating him with a force that was
mightier than his own will. A voice in his soul was crying out the
truth--that above all else in the world he wanted to reach out his
arms to this glorious creature who was the wife of St. Pierre,
this woman who had tried to kill him and was sorry. He knew that
it was not desire for beauty. It was the worship which St. Pierre
himself must have for this woman who was his wife. And the shock
of it was like a conflagration sweeping through him, leaving him
dead and shriven, like the crucified trees standing in the wake of
a fire. A breath that was almost a cry came from him, and his
fists knotted until they were purple. She was St. Pierre's wife!
And he, David Carrigan, proud of his honor, proud of the strength
that made him man, had dared covet her in this hour when her
husband was gone! He stared at the closed door, beginning to cry
out against himself, and over him there swept slowly and terribly
another thing--the shame of his weakness, the hopelessness of the
thing that for a space had eaten into him and consumed him.
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