Douglas Dale had not yet recovered
consciousness, and there was no one to hinder Carrington's departure.
For some time he walked on, unconscious whither he went, unable to
grasp or realize the events that had befallen. But at last-dimly,
darkly, grim shapes arose out of the chaos of his brain.
There would be a trial--some kind of trial!--Douglas Dale would not be
baffled of vengeance if the law could give it him. His crime--what was
it, if it could be proved? An attempt to murder--an attempt the basest,
the most hideous, and revolting. What hope could he have of mercy--he,
utterly merciless himself, expected no such weakness from his fellow-
men.
But in this supreme hour of utter defeat, his thoughts did not dwell on
the hazards of the future. The chief bitterness of his soul was the
agony of disappointment--of baffled hope--of humiliation, degradation
unspeakable. He had thought himself invincible, the master of his
fellow-men, by the supremacy of intellectual power, and remorseless
cruelty. And he was what? A baffled trickster, whose every move upon
the great chessboard had been a separate mistake, leading step by step
to the irrevocable sentence--checkmate!
The ruined towers of Champfontaine arose before him, as in a vision,
black against a blood-red sky.
"I can understand those mad devils of '93--I can understand the roll-
call of the guillotine--the noyades--the conflagrations--the foul
orgies of murderous drunkards, drunken with blood.
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