He justified his deed, for Durade would
have killed Allison Lee. But that fact did not prevent the haunting
shape, the stir in the dark air, the nameless step upon Neale's
trail.
And jealousy, stronger than all except fear, wore Neale out of his
exaltation, out of his dream, out of his old disposition to work. He
could persist in courage if not in joy. But jealous longing would
destroy him--he felt that. It was so powerful, so wonderful that it
brought back to him words and movements which until then he had been
unable to recall.
And he lived over the past. Much still baffled him, yet gradually
more and more of what had happened became clear specifically in his
memory. He could not think from the present back over the past. He
had to ponder the other way. One day, leaning on his sledge, Neale's
torturing self, morbid, inquisitive, growing by what it fed on,
whispered another question to his memory.
"What were some of the last words she spoke to me?" And there,
limned white on the dark background of his mind, the answer
appeared, "NEALE, _I_ FORGIVE YOU!"
He recalled her face, the tragic eyes, the outstretched arms.
"Forgive me! For what?" Neale muttered, dazed and troubled. He
dropped his sledge and remained standing there, though the noon
whistle called the gang to dinner.
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