"This is not the lover she lost--only a
horrible, mocking semblance. He has lost his own identity; he does
not even know himself--would not know her. Ah! I'm not sure of
that. I would be dead indeed if her dear features did not kindle
my eyes in recognition. It may be that the sight of her face is
the one thing essential to restore him. I feel this would be true
were it my case. But how can I give her up now? How can?--how can
I? Oh, this terrible journey! No wonder Helen had forebodings. She
loves me; she is mine. No one else has so good a right. We were to
be married only a few hours hence. Then she whom I've loved from
childhood would make my home a heaves on earth. And yet--and yet--
" Even in the darkness he buried his face in his hands, shuddered,
moaned, writhed, and grated his teeth in the torment of the
conflict.
Hour after hour he wavered, now on the point of yielding, then
stung by conscience into desperate uncertainty. The night was
cold, the howling wind would have chilled him at another time, but
during his struggle great drops of sweat often poured from his
face.
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