His heart thumped.

His brain was swirling in a vague and chaotic struggle for the mastery of things, and as he fought with himself--his unseeing eyes fixed on the spot where Peter and the snowshoe rabbit had disappeared--he heard Nada's voice behind him, saying again that she was going with him and Peter.

In those seconds he felt himself giving way, and the determined action he had built up for himself began to crumble like sand.

He had made his confession and in spite of it this young girl he worshipped--sweeter and purer than the flowers of the forest--was urging herself upon him! And his soul cried out for him to turn about, and open his arms to her, and gather her into them for as long as God saw fit to give him freedom and life.
But still he fought against that mighty urge, dragging reason and right back fragment by fragment, while Nada stood behind him, her wide-open, childishly beautiful eyes beginning to comprehend the struggle that was disrupting the heart of this man who was an outlaw--and her god among men.

And when Jolly Roger turned, his face had aged to the grayness of stone, and his eyes were dull, and there was a terribly dead note in his voice.
"You can't go with us," he said.