But she was ill and
wholly unable to defend herself; to inflict fresh pain at such a
time would have been mean and cowardly. He kept away and did his
best not to go mad, though he felt that he could not bear the
strain much longer.
As the afternoon light faded from his chamber he dropped the
pencil and paper with which he had been working and leaned back in
his chair. His face was haggard and drawn, and sleepless nights
had made dark circles about his deep-set eyes, while his face,
which was naturally lean, had grown suddenly thin and hollow. He
was indeed one of the most unhappy men in Rome that day, and so
far as he could see his misery had fallen upon him through no
fault of his own. It would have been a blessed relief, could he
have accused himself of injustice, or of any misdeed which might
throw the weight and responsibility of Corona's actions back upon
his own soul. He loved her still so well that he could have
imagined nothing sweeter than to throw himself at her feet and cry
aloud that it was he who had sinned and not she. He tortured his
imagination for a means of proving that she might be innocent. But
it was in vain. The chain of circumstantial evidence was complete
and not a link was missing, not one point uncertain.
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