His brain began again to plod up the treadmill it had labored on for so many black hours.  He set himself to get it clear in his own mind, forcing those fierce, burning thoughts of his into words, as if he had been speaking aloud.  “Now, now here I am.  What must I do?  What ought I to do?  There must be some answer if I can only think clearly, feel aright. What is it that I want?”

The answer burst from him, as though in a cry of torture from his brain, his body, his passion, his soul, “I want Marise!”

And at this expression of overmastering desire, memory flooded his mind with a stream of unforgotten pictures of their life together; Marise facing him at the breakfast table; Marise walking with him in the autumn woods; Marise with Paul a baby in her arms; Marise, almost unknown then, the flame-like divinity of her soul only guessed-at, looking into his eyes as the Campagna faded into darkness below them.  “What was it she asked me then?  Whether I knew the way across the dark plain?  I was a confident young fool then.  I was sure I could find the way, with her.  I’ve been thinking all these years that we were finding it, step by step . . . till now.  And now, what is it I am afraid of?  I’m afraid she finds herself cramped, wants a fuller existence, regrets . . . no, that’s dodging.  There’s no use lying to myself.  I’m afraid that Marise is in love with Vincent Marsh.  Good God! no!  It can’t be that . . . not Marise!  This is all nonsense.  This is something left over from sleep and a bad dream.  I must wake up.  I must wake up and find it not true.”

He lay perfectly still, his fists clenched tight, perspiration standing out on his rigid body.  Then sternly he forced his mind to go forward again, step by step.

“I suppose it’s possible.  Other women have.  There’s a lot in her that must be starved here.  I may not be enough for her.  She was so young then.  She has grown so greatly.  What right have I to try to hold her if she is tired of it all, needs something else?”

He hesitated, shrinking back as from fire, from the answer he knew he must give.  At last he forced it out, “I haven’t any right.  I don’t want her to stay if she wants to go.  I want Marise.  But even more I want her to be happy.”

The thought, with all its implications, terrified him like a death-sentence, but he repeated it grimly, pressing it home fiercely, “I want her to be happy.”

He realized where this thought would lead him, and in a panic wildly fought against going on.  He had tried to hold himself resolute and steady, but he was nothing now save a flame of resentment.  “Happy!  She won’t be happy that way!  She can’t love that man!  She’s being carried away by that damnable sensibility of hers.  It would be the most hideous, insane mistake.  What am I thinking of . . . all these words!  What I must do is to keep her from ruining her life.”