He closed the breech; but as he was about to draw back the hammer all his courage, all his resolution, crumbled in an instant like a tower of sand.

He did not dare to shoot himself--he was afraid.

The night before he had been brave enough; how was it now that he could not call up the same courage, the same determination?
When he thought over the wreck, the wretched failure of his life, the dreadful prospect of the future years, his anguish and his terror were as keen as ever.

But now there was a shrinking of his every nerve from the thought of suicide, the instinctive animal fear of death, stronger than himself.
His suffering had to go on, had to run its course, even death would not help him.

Let it go on, it was only the better part of him that was suffering; in a little while this better part would be dead, leaving only the brute.