If it must be, it must be.

The prospect was dark as the room in which he stood, confined and stifling, sordid and shameful; the end one which would make his name a marvel and an astonishment.

But the prospect and the end were hers too; they would face them together.

Haply he might spare her some one pang, haply he might give her some one moment of happiness, the support of one at least who knew her pure and spotless.
And while he thought of it--surprise of surprises--he bowed his head on his folded arms and wept.
Not in pity for himself, but for her.

It was the thought of her gentleness, her loving nature, her harmlessness--and the end this, the reward this--which overcame him; which swelled his breast until only tears could relieve it.