Then came his last shot; the final bullet which the besieged warrior will sometimes reserve for his own destruction.

There could no longer be any pretense between them.

Bravely he faced her.
"Now--you just needn't try to keep it from me any longer! I _know_ there ain't any--" One tensely tragic second he paused to gather himself--"_It's all over town!_" There being nothing further to live for, he delivered himself to grief--to be tortured and destroyed.
Clytie set the candle on the bureau and came to hover him.

Within the pressing arms and upon the proffered bosom he wept out one of those griefs that may not be told--that only the heart can understand.

Yet, when the first passion of it was spent she began to reassure him, begging him not to be misled by idle gossip; to take not even her own testimony, but to wait and see what he would see.