He sat for a few minutes perfectly motionless. Then a
shudder ran through him, and the black Highland blood
surged into his face, and anger flamed in his eyes. He
sprang to his feet with his huge hands clenched.
"He shall not have her," he whispered to himself. "She
is mine. How dare he name her!"
Only for a moment did he give himself to the ecstasy of
rage. Then his arms fell and he stood straight and calm
and strong, master of himself once more.
"What right have I?" he groaned wearily pressing his
hands to his head. "Who am I that any woman should desire
me. Clay, with his easy grace, his wit, his manliness,
his handsome face, no wonder that she prefers him, any
woman would, and Clay is worthy, more worthy," he thought
in an agony of renunciation. He thought of Clay's life
as he had known it now for years. So fair and open and
clean. "Yes, Clay is worthy of her." He repeated it dully
to himself as he walked up and down.
Every incident of the past three months came back to him
now with cruel distinctness--the sweetness of her voice,
the glorious beauty of her face, so full sometimes of
life's pain, so strong too in the overcoming of it, and
her little hands--oh what pretty little hands they were--
he had held them once only for a moment, but she must
have felt the love that throbbed in his touch, and he
had thought that perhaps--perhaps Oh, unutterable blind
fool that he was!
He pressed his hands again to his head and groaned aloud;
and He who hears the cry of the child or of the strong
man in agony drew near and laid His pierced hands upon
him in healing and benediction.
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