ing twice. This was
merely a wilful, miserable degeneracy. Rudyard had been
wronged--terribly wronged--by himself, by Jasmine; but he had loved
Jasmine since she was a child, before Rudyard came--in truth, he all
but possessed her when Rudyard came; and there was some explanation, if
no excuse, for that betrayal; but this other, it was incredible, it was
monstrous. It was incredible but yet it was true. Thoughts that
overturned all his past, that made a melee of his life, rushed and
whirled through his mind as he read the letter with assumed
deliberation when he saw what it was. He read slowly that he might make
up his mind how to act, what to say and do in this crisis. To do--what?
Jasmine had betrayed him long ago when she had thrown him over for
Rudyard, and now she had betrayed him again after she had married
Rudyard, and betrayed Rudyard, too; and for whom this second betrayal?
His heart seemed to shrink to nothingness. This business dated far
beyond yesterday. The letter furnished that sure evidence.

What to do? Like lightning his mind was made up. What to do? Ah, but
one thing to do--only one thing to do--save her at any cost, somehow
save her! Whatever she was, whatever she had done, however she had
spoiled his life and destroyed forever his faith, yet he too had
betrayed this broken man before him, with the look in his eyes of an
animal at bay, ready to do the last irretrievable thing. Even as her
shameless treatment of himself smote him; lowered him to that dust
which is ground from the heels of merciless humanity--even as it
sickened his soul beyond recovery in this world, up from the lowest
depths of his being there came the indestructible thing. It was the
thing that never dies, the love that defies injury, shame, crime,
deceit, and desertion, and lives pityingly on, knowing all, enduring
all, desiring no touch, no communion, yet prevailing--the
indestructible thing.

He knew now in a flash what he had to do. He must save her. He saw that
Rudyard was armed, and that the end might come at any moment. There was
in the wronged husband's eyes the wild, reckless, unseeing thing which
disregards consequences, which would rush blindly on the throne of God
itself to snatch its vengeance. He spoke again: and just in time.

"I think what you think, Byng, but I would not do what you want to do.
I would do something else."

His voice was strangely quiet, but it had a sharp insistence which
caused Rudyard to turn