He did not think of hell at all, just then, nor of heaven or of
anything else that was very far off. He only thought of Sabina, and if
he once wished himself dead for his own sake, he drove the cowardly
thought away. As long as he was alive, he could still do something for
her--surely, there must be something that he could do. There must be a
way out, if he could only use his wits and his strength, as he had
made a way out of the vaults, for her to pass through, ten days ago.
There was nothing, or at least he could think of nothing, that could
help her. To try and free himself from the bond he had put upon
himself would be to break a solemn promise given to a dying man whom
he had dearly loved. The woman he had seen that once, to marry her and
leave her, had been worthy of the sacrifice, too, as far as lay in
her. He had given her a small income, enough for her and her little
girl to live on comfortably. She had not only kept within it, but had
learned to support herself, little by little, till she had refused to
take the money that was sent to her. At regular times, she wrote to
him, as to a benefactor, touching and truthful letters, with news of
the growing child. He knew that it was all without affectation of any
sort, and that she had turned out a thoroughly good and honest woman.
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