But Felicita, who did not love him as his mother did, and could not remain in ignorance of his crime! Was she not something like these pure, distant snowy pinnacles, inapproachable and repellent, with icy-cold breath which petrified all lips that drew too near to them?
And he had set a stain upon that purity as white as the driven snow.

The name he had given to her was tarnished, and would be publicly dishonored if he failed in evading the penalty he merited.

His death alone could save her from notorious and intolerable disgrace.
But though he was reckless of his life, he could not bring himself to be guilty of suicide.

Death was wooing him in many forms, day by day, to seek refuge with him.

When his feet slipped among the yawning crevasses of the glaciers, the smallest wilful negligence would have buried him in their blue depths.