He was beaten.  But scorn him not for yielding.  Think how he was beaten.  Could he help it that the life in him proved too much for the death with which he had sided?  Was it poltroonery to desert the cause of ruin for that of growth? of essential slavery for ordered freedom? of disintegration for vital and enlarging unity?  He had “said to corruption, Thou art my father:  to the worm, Thou art my mother, and my sister;” but a Mightier than he, the Life that lighteth every man that cometh into the world, had said, “O thou enemy, destruction shall have a perpetual end;” and he could not stand against the life by which he stood.  When it comes to this, what can a man do?  Remember he was a created being—­or, if you will not allow that, then something greatly less.  If not “loved into being” by a perfect Will, in his own image of life and law, he had but a mother whom he never could see, because she could never behold either herself or him:  he was the offspring of the dead, and must be pardoned if he gave a foolish cry after a parent worth having.

Wait, thou who countest such a cry a weak submission, until, having refused to take thine hour with thee, thine hour overtakes thee:  then see if thou wilt stand out.  Another’s battle is easy.  God only knows with what earthquakes and thunders, that hour, on its way to find thee, may level the mountains and valleys between.  If thou wouldst be perfect in the greatness of thy way, thou must learn to live in the fire of thy own divine nature turned against thy conscious self:  learn to smile content in that, and thou wilt out-satan Satan in the putridity of essential meanness, yea, self-satisfied in very virtue of thy shame, thou wilt count it the throned apotheosis of inbred honor.  But seeming is not being—­least of all self-seeming.  Dishonor will yet be dishonor, if all the fools in creation should be in love with it, and call it glory.

In an hour, Juliet woke again, vaguely remembering a heavenly dream, whose odorous air yet lingered, and made her happy, she knew not why.  Then what a task would have been Faber’s!  For he must not go near her.  The balance of her life trembled on a knife-edge, and a touch might incline it toward death.  A sob might determine the doubt.

But as soon as he saw sign that her sleep was beginning to break, he all but extinguished the light, then having felt her pulse, listened to her breathing, and satisfied himself generally of her condition, crept from the room, and calling the nurse, told her to take his place.  He would be either in the next room, he said, or within call in the park.

He threw himself on the bed, but could not rest:  rose and had a bath; listened at Juliet’s door, and hearing no sound, went to the stable.  Niger greeted him with a neigh of pleasure.  He made haste to saddle him, his hands trembling so that he could hardly get the straps into the girth buckles.

“That’s Niger!” said Juliet, hearing his whinny.  “Is he come?”