It was that in tearing himself from them he could make no response to the dumb appeal in the eyes that followed him with adoration and fidelity: "Wherefore do you leave us at all ?" and "Why do you make no promise of return ?" To that dumb appeal there was no answer possible from one who carried on his heart for himself, and on his life for some few others, and among these his own father, the terrible brand of the criminal.

It was this grim fact that stained black the whole landscape of his consciousness, and that hung like a pall of death over every living and delightsome thing in the garden of his soul.

While none could, without challenge, condemn him, yet his own tongue refused to proclaim his innocence.
Every face he loved drove deeper into his heart his pain.

The deathless loyalty and unbounded pride of the Glen folk rebuked him, without their knowing, for the dishonour he had done them.

The Glen itself, the hills, the purpling heather, the gleaming loch, how dear to him he had never known till now, threw in his face a sad and silent reproach.