It should have been Heathercat's; why had it been given to Crozer?
An exquisite fear of what should be the answer passed through his marrow every time he faced the question.

Was it possible that Crozer could have boasted?
that there were rumours abroad to his--Heathercat's--discredit?
that his honour was publicly sullied?
All the world went dark about him at the thought; he sank without a struggle into the midnight pool of despair; and every time he so sank, he brought back with him--not drowned heroism indeed, but half-drowned courage by the locks.

His heart beat very slowly as he deserted his station, and began to crawl towards that of Crozer.
Something pulled him back, and it was not the sense of duty, but a remembrance of Crozer's build and hateful readiness of fist.

Duty, as he conceived it, pointed him forward on the rueful path that he was travelling.

Duty bade him redeem his name if he were able, at the risk of broken bones; and his bones and every tooth in his head ached by anticipation.