In all that happened, the resistance and the peril, he must, he knew, show himself; he must take his part and run his risk if he would not be known for what he was, if he would not leave a name that men would spit on! Strangely enough it was the moment of discovery and his conduct in that moment--it was the anticipation of this, that weighed most heavily on his guilty mind as he sat in his parlour, his hour of retiring long past, his household in bed.

The city slept round him; how long would it sleep?
And when it awoke, how long dared he, how long would it be natural for him to ignore the first murmur, the succeeding outcry, the rising alarm?
It was not his cue to do overmuch, to precipitate discovery, or to assume at once the truth to be the truth.

But on the other hand he must not be too backward.
Try as he would he could not divert his thoughts from this.

He saw himself skulking in his house, listening with a white face to the rush of armed men along the street.

He heard the tumult rising on all sides, and saw himself stand, guilty and irresolute, between hearth and door, uncertain if the time had come to go forth.