Had he, he could not but ask himself, immolated a warm living heart in a fanatical devotion to a heart long since senseless and cold?
Had it not, after all, been a superstitious veneration towards an ideal of faithfulness which had been Jenny's rather than his own?
Had he in his heart ever ceased to love Isabel, and had he really believed that to love her too would have been unfaithfulness to Jenny?
Yes, life was nearly over, but it held the possibility still of one supreme blessedness.

He might look into Isabel's eyes again.
She had but to stand by his side and his poor remnant of life would grow radiant and rounded as the most complete and blissful destiny.

His heart told him that if Isabel could but once enter the room again, and stay with him to the end, however near, he would die singing the song of magnificent life.
Life is tragic, do you say?
Life is cruel.

Life is a splendid portico--to nothingness.

Ah, no! not if in that portico you have stood for a moment, loving and beloved, by the side of Isabel.