The expiation is not enough. I
lived in another: to win a woman's love; and I have, and was caught up by
it for a moment, and it was wonderful. But it is over now, quite over.
. . . And now for her sake renunciation must be made, before I have another
dream--a long one, Marmion."
I had forebodings, but I pulled myself together and said firmly: "Roscoe,
these are fancies. Stop it, man. You are moody. Come, let us walk, and
talk of other things."
"No, we will not walk," he said, "but let us sit there on the coping and
be quiet--quiet in that roar between the hills." Suddenly he swung round,
caught me by the shoulders and held me gently so.
"I have a pain at my heart, Marmion, as if I'd heard my death sentence;
such as a soldier feels who knows that Death looks out at him from iron
eyes. You smile: I suppose you think I am mad."
I saw that it was best to let him speak his mind. So I answered: "Not
mad, my friend. Say on what you like. Tell me all you feel. Only, for
God's sake be brave, and don't give up until there's occasion. I am sure
you exaggerate your danger, whatever it is."
"Listen for a minute," said he: "I had a brother Edward, as good a lad as
ever was; a boisterous, healthy fellow.
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