Love had been a fable before this--doubtless a very pretty one; and passion had been a literary phrase--employed obviously with considerable effect.

But now he stood in a personal relation to these familiar ideas, which gave them a very much keener import; they had laid their hand upon him in the darkness, he felt it upon his shoulder, and he knew by its pressure that it was the hand of destiny.

What made this sensation a shock was the element that was mixed with it; the fact that it came not simply and singly, but with an attendant shadow in which it immediately merged and lost itself.

It was forbidden fruit--he knew it the instant he had touched it.

He felt that he had pledged himself not to do just this thing which was gleaming before him so divinely--not to widen the crevice, not to open the door that would flood him with light.