He could not save Columbine with his ideals.
The night wore on, and Wade plodded under the rustling aspens.

The insects ceased to hum, the owls to hoot, the wolves to mourn.

The shadows of the long spruces gradually merged into the darkness of night.
Above, infinitely high, burned the pale stars, wise and cold, aloof and indifferent, eyes of other worlds of mystery.
In those night hours something in Wade died, but his idealism, unquenchable and inexplicable, the very soul of the man, saw its justification and fulfilment in the distant future.
The gray of the dawn stole over the eastern range, and before its opaque gloom the blackness of night retreated, until valley and slope and grove were shrouded in spectral light, where all seemed unreal.
And with it the gray-gloomed giant of Wade's mind, the morbid and brooding spell, had gained its long-encroaching ascendancy.

He had again found the man to whom he must tell his story.

Tragic and irrevocable decree! It was his life that forced him, his crime, his remorse, his agony, his endless striving.