could not strengthen him against the brute.  He felt that somewhere, some time, there was punishment for evildoing, but, as happened in the case of Ida Wade’s death, to dwell on such thoughts disturbed and terrified him.  He did not dare to look long in that direction.  Conscience, remorse, repentance, all these had been keen enough at first, but he had so persistently kicked against the pricks that little by little he had ceased to feel them at all.

Then an immense and overwhelming terror seized upon him.  Was there nothing, then—­nothing left which he could lay hold of to save him?  He knew that he could not deliver himself by his own exertions.  Religion could not help him, he had killed his father, estranged the girl he might have loved, outraged the world, and at a single breath blighted the fine innate purity of his early years.  It was as if he had entered into his life in the world as into some vast labyrinth, wandering on aimlessly, flinging from him one by one the threads, the clues, that might have led him again to a safe exit, going down deeper and deeper until, when near the centre, he had suddenly felt the presence of the brute, had heard its loathsome muttering growl, had at last seen it far down at the end of a passage, dimly and in a dark shadow; terrified, he had started back, looking wildly about for any avenue of escape, searching with frantic haste and eagerness for any one of those clues he had so carelessly cast from him, realizing that without such guidance he would inevitably tend down again to that fatal central place where the brute had its lair.

There was nothing, nothing.  He clearly saw the fate toward which he was hurrying; it was not too late to save himself if he only could find help, but he could find no help.  His terror increased almost to hysteria.  It was one of those dreadful moments that men sometimes undergo that must be met alone, and that when past, remain in the memory for all time; a glimpse far down into the springs and wheels of life; a glimpse that does not come often lest the reason brought to the edge of the fearful gulf should grow dizzy at the sight, and reeling, topple headlong.

But suddenly Vandover rose to his feet, the tears came to his eyes, and with a long breath he exclaimed:  “Thank God for it!” He grew calmer in a moment, the crisis had passed, he had found a clue beneath his groping fingers.

He had remembered his art, turning to it instinctively as he always did when greatly moved.  This was the one good thing that yet survived.  It was the strongest side of him; it would be the last to go; he felt it there yet.  It was the one thing that could save him.

The thought had come to him so suddenly and with such marvellous clearness that in his present exalted state of mind it filled him with a vague sense of awe, it seemed like a manifestation, a writing on the wall.  Might it not be some sort of miracle?  He had heard of men reforming their lives, transformed almost in an instant, and had scoffed at the idea.  But might it not be true, after all?  What was this wonderful thing that had happened to him?  Was this less strange than a miracle?  Less divine?