In the long hours that he sat gazing at the picture his mind was the scene of changing moods.  At first the sense of horror and shame was paramount.  He was aghast at himself and too full of self-abhorrence to do more than fight blindly away from what he could not but see.  He would fain have lost his senses if only to buy the boon of ignorance.  Then this mood passed.  The long habit of his heart asserted itself, and he fell on his knees, no longer in horror, but in abasement and penitence.  Now all his thought was for the sin he had done to Heaven and to his vow; but had he not learnt and taught, and re-learnt in teaching, that there was no sin without pardon, if pardon were sought?  And for a moment, not peace, but the far-off possible hope and prospect of peace regained comforted his spirit.  It might be yet that he would come through the dark valley, and gaze with his old eyes on the light of his life set in the sky.

But was his sin only against Heaven and his vow and himself?  Is sin so confined?  If Morewood had seen, had not others?  Had not she seen?  Would not the discovery he had made come to her also?  Nay, had it not come?  He had been blind; but had she?  Was it not far more likely that she had not deceived herself as to the tendency of their friendship, nor dreamt that he meant anything except what his acts, words, and looks had so plainly—­yes, to his own eyes now, so plainly declared?  He looked back on her graciousness, her delight in his society, her unconcealed admiration for him.  What meaning had these but one?  What did she know of his vow?  Why should she dream of anything save the happy ending of the story that flits before the half-averted eyes of a girl when she is with her lover?  Even if she had heard of his vow, would they not all tell her it was a conceit of youth, a spiritual affectation, a thing that a wise counselor would tell him and her quietly to set aside?  Did it not all point to this?  He was not only a perjurer toward Heaven, but his sin had brought woe and pain to her he loved.

So he groaned in renewed self-condemnation.  But what did that mean?  And then an irresistible tide of triumph swept over him, obliterating shame and horror and remorse.  She loved him.  He had won.  Be it good or evil, she was his!  Who forbade his joy?  Though all the world, aye, and all Heaven, were against him, nothing should stop him.  Should he sin for naught?  Should he not have the price of his soul?  Should he not enjoy what he had bought so dearly?  Enough of talking, and enough of reasoning!  Passion filled him, and he knew no good nor evil save its satiety or hunger.