then, the fine, pure fervor that should, at thought of
her, whirl him on high and make a god of him?

He stood wrapped in bewilderment and despair, for he could find no
answer.

In plain words, in commonplace black-and-white, the man's anguish has an
over-fanciful, a well-nigh absurd look, but to Ste. Marie the thing was
very real and terrible, as real and as terrible as, to a half-starved
monk in his lonely cell, the sudden failure of the customary exaltation
of spirit after a night's long prayer.

He went, after a time, back to the bed, and lay down there with one
upflung arm across his eyes to shut out the light. He was filled with a
profound dejection and a sense of hopelessness. Through all the long
week of his imprisonment he had been cheerful, at times even gay.
However evil his case might have looked, his elastic spirits had mounted
above all difficulties and cares, confident in the face of apparent
defeat. Now at last he lay still, bruised, as it were, and battered and
weary. The flame of courage burned very low in him. From sheer
exhaustion he fell after a time into a troubled sleep, but even there
the enemy followed him and would not let him rest. He seemed to himself
to be in a place of shadows and fears. He strained his eyes to make out
above him the bright, clear star of guidance, for so long as that shone
he was safe; but something had come between--cloud or mist--and his star
shone dimly in fitful glimpses.

* * * * *

On the next morning he went out once more with the old Michel into the
garden. He went with a stronger heart, for the morning had renewed his
courage, as bright, fresh mornings do. From the anguish of the day
before he held himself carefully aloof. He kept his mind away from all
thought of it, and gave his attention to the things about him. It would
return, doubtless, in the slow, idle hours; he would have to face it
again and yet again; he would have to contend with it; but for the
present he put it out of his thoughts, for there were things to do.

It was no more than human of him--and certainly it was very
characteristic of Ste. Marie--that he should be half glad and half
disappointed at not finding Coira O'Hara in her place at the rond point.
It left him free to do what he wished to do--make a careful
reconnaissance of the whole garden enclosure--but it left him empty of
something he had, without conscious thought, looked forward to.

His wounded