They had not taken their eyes from each other and were trying to penetrate each other’s minds, but realized that it was impossible.  There was in each something that the other could not comprehend.

The strain on his overwrought nerves soon became unendurable to David, and he sank into a chair.

“Well,” he said, as he did so, “what are you going to do about it?”

She had not at first realized that the emergency called for action, but this inquiry awakened her to the consciousness that she was in a situation from which she must escape by an effort of her will.  She was before a horrible dilemma and upon one horn or the other she must be cruelly impaled.

But David, who asked the question, had not realized this necessity at all.

“Do?” she said, “do?  Must I do something?  Yes, you are right.  We cannot go on as we are.  Something must be done.  But what?  Is it possible that I must return to my husband?  How can I do that—­I who cannot think of him without loathing!  What is the matter?  Why do you tremble so?  Is it then as terrible to you as to me?  I see from your emotion that I am right.  And yet I cannot see what good it will do!  How can it undo the wrong?  It will be a certain sort of reparation, but it cannot bring him happiness, for I cannot give him back my heart.  To whom will it bring happiness?  Has happiness become impossible?  Are we all three doomed to eternal misery?  Oh!  David, why have you done this?”

He did not reply, but sat cowering in his chair.

“Forgive me,” she cried, when she noticed his despair, “I did not mean to reproach you, but I am so bewildered!  And yet I see my duty!  If he is my husband, I must go back to him.  A wife’s place is by her husband’s side.  I do not see how I can do it, but I must.  How hard it is!  I cannot realize it.  The very thought of seeing him again makes me shudder!  And yet I must go!”

“It is impossible,” gasped the trembling creature to whom she looked for confirmation.

“Why impossible?”

“Because, because—­he—­is—­dead,” he whispered, through his dry lips.

“Dead?  Did you say dead?” Pepeeta cried.  “When did he die?  How did he die?”

“I killed him,” he shouted, springing to his feet and waving his hands wildly.  “There!  It has told itself.  I knew it would.  It has been eating its way out of my heart for months.  I should have died if I had kept it secret for another moment.  I feel relieved already.  You do not know what it means to guard a secret night and day for years, do you?  Oh, how sweet it is to tell it at last.  I killed him!  I killed him!  I struck him with a stone.  I crushed his skull and turned him face downward in the road and left him there so that when they found him they would think that he had fallen from his horse.  It was well done, for one who had had no training in crime!  No one has suspected it.  I am in no danger.  And yet I could not keep the secret any longer.