Ah, no, he could not endure it--the horror of life overpassed the horror of death; he could not go on living.

A new thought had come to him.

Wretched as he was, he saw that in time his anguish of conscience, even his dread of losing his reason, would pass from him; he would become used to them; yes, even become used to the dread of insanity, and then he would return once more to vice, return once more into the power of the brute, the perverse and evil monster that was knitted to him now irrevocably, part for part, fibre for fibre.

He saw clearly that nothing could save him, he had had his answer that night, there was to be no miracle.

Was it not right, then, that he should destroy himself?
Was it not even his duty?
The better part of him seemed to demand the act; should he not comply while there yet was any better part left?
In a little while the brute was to take all.
On the shelves above his washstand Vandover found the cartridges in a green pasteboard box, and loaded all the chambers of the revolver, carefully.