Silent was he who lay there as the secret which he had never discharged even to his deaf pillow.

Had that secret mutinied in the heart that knew its purple war no more?
Ah! how true it was that conscience was a thousand swords.

With no witness against him except himself, whither could he have fled from the accusation that burned within him as a fire! Not chains nor cells could have spoken to this strong man like the awful voice of his solitary heart.

How remorse must have corroded that heart! How he must have numbered the hours of that remorse! How one sanguinary deed must have trampled away all joyous memories! But the secret agony was over at last: it was over now.
The moonlight had crept up to the head.

It was silvering the gray hairs that rested there.