He waited long, indulging freely in hesitation, bathing his wearied soul in her nearness--yielding in fancy.
Then he walked off into the night, down through the village, past the light of open doors, and through the voices that sounded from them, out on to the bare bench of the mountain--his old refuge in temptation--where he could be safe from submitting to what his soul had forbidden.

He had meant to take up a cross, but before his very eyes it had changed to be a snare set for him by the Devil.
He stayed late on the ground in the darkness, winning the battle for himself over and over, decisively, he thought, at the last.

But when he went home she was there in the doorway to meet him, still silent, but with eyes that told more than he dared to hear.

He thought she had in some way divined his struggle, and was waiting to strengthen the odds against him, with her face in the light of a candle she held above her head.
He went by her without speaking, afraid of his weakness, and rushed to his little cell-like room to fight the battle over.

As a last source of strength he took from its hiding-place the little Bible.