In this very matter of Peter Godolphin's death, what sacrifices had not Sir Oliver made to shield him?
From so much love and self-sacrifice in the past he inclined to argue now that not even in extreme peril would his brother betray him.

And then that bad streak of fear which made a villain of him reminded him that to argue thus was to argue upon supposition, that it would be perilous to trust such an assumption; that if, after all, Sir Oliver should fail him in the crucial test, then was he lost indeed.
When all is said, a man's final judgment of his fellows must be based upon his knowledge of himself; and Lionel, knowing himself incapable of any such sacrifice for Sir Oliver, could not believe Sir Oliver capable of persisting in such a sacrifice as future events might impose.

He reverted to those words Sir Oliver had uttered in that very room two nights ago, and more firmly than ever he concluded that they could have but one meaning.
Then came doubt, and, finally, assurance of another sort, assurance that this was not so and that he knew it; assurance that he lied to himself, seeking to condone the thing he did.

He took his head in his hands and groaned loud.

He was a villain, a black-hearted, soulless villain! He reviled himself again.