No one would ever understand his explanation--even had he been tempted to give one, and he knew he never would.

Everything was over now! Even this wretched bullet had not struck him fairly, and culminated his fate as it might! For an instant, he recalled his wife's last offer to fly with him beyond the seas--beyond this cruel injustice--but even as he recalled it, he knew that flight meant the worst of all--a half-confession! But she had escaped! Thank God for that! Again and again in his hopeless perplexity this comfort returned to him,--he had saved her; he had done his duty.

And harping upon this in his strange fatalism, it at last seemed to him that this was for what he had lived--for what he had suffered--for what he had fitly ended his career.

Perhaps it was left for him now to pass his remaining years in forgotten exile--even as his father had--his father!--his breath came quickly at the thought--God knows! perhaps as wrongfully accused! It may have been a Providence that she had borne him no child, to whom this dreadful heritage could be again transmitted.
There was something of this strange and fateful resignation in his face, a few hours later, when he was able to be helped again into the saddle.
But he could see in the eyes of the few comrades who commiseratingly took leave of him, a vague, half-repressed awe of some indefinite weakness in the man, that mingled with their heartfelt parting with a gallant soldier.

Yet even this touched him no longer.