Chapter18

    Thedayhedidhehouse,and,indeed,spentmostofthetimeinhisownroom,sickwithawildterrorofdying,aindifferenttolifeitself.Thesciousnessofbeinghunted,srackeddown,hadbeguntodominatehim.Ifthetapestrydidbuttrembleinthewind,heshook.Thedeadleavesthatwereblownagainsttheleadedpanesseemedtohimlikehisownwastedresolutionsandwildregrets.Whenheclosedhiseyes,hesawagainthesailorsfacepeeringthroughthemist-stainedglass,andhorrorseemedoncemoretolayitshanduponhisheart.

    Butperhapsithadbeenonlyhisfancythathadcalledvengeaofthenightahehideousshapesofpunishmentbeforehim.Actuallifewaschaos,buttherewassomethingterriblylogitheimagination.Itwastheimaginationthatsetremorsetodogthefeetofsin.Itwastheimaginationthatmadeeachcrimebearitsmisshapenbrood.Intheonworldoffactthewickedwerenotpunished,noodrewarded.Successwasgiventothestrong,failurethrustupontheweak.Thatwasall.Besides,hadanystrangerbeenprowlingroundthehouse,hewouldhavebeeheservantsorthekeepers.Hadanyfoot-marksbeenfoundontheflower-beds,thegardenerswouldhavereportedit.Yes,ithadbeenmerelyfancy.SibylVanesbrotherhadnotebacktokillhim.Hehadsailedawayinhisshiptofounderiersea.Fromhim,atanyrate,hewassafe.Why,themandidnotknowwhohewas,couldnotknowwhohewas.Themaskofyouthhadsavedhim.

    Aifithadbeenmerelyanillusion,howterribleitwastothinkthatscecouldraisesuchfearfulphantoms,andgivethemvisibleform,andmakethemmovebeforeone!Whatsortoflifewouldhisbeif,dayandnight,shadowsofhiscrimeweretopeerathimfromsilenters,tomockhimfromsecretplaces,towhisperinh