Yet here it was in his hand; and even as it lay in his cold fingers--how cold they were, and his head how burning!--the desire for it surged up in him.

And, as though the thing itself had the magical power to summon up his troubles, that it might offer the apathy and stimulus in one--even as it lured him, his dangers, his anxieties, the black uncertainties massed, multiplied and aggressive, rose before him, buffeted him, caught at his throat, dragged down his shoulders, clutched at his heart.
Now, with a cry of agony, he threw the phial on the ground, and, sinking on the bed, buried his face in his hands and moaned, and fought for freedom from the cords tightening round him.

It was for him to realise now how deep are the depths to which the human soul can sink, even while labouring to climb.

Once more the sense of awful futility was on him: of wasted toil and blenched force, veins of energy drained of their blood, hope smitten in the way, and every dear dream shattered.

Was it, then, all ended?
Was his work indeed fallen, and all his love undone?
Was his own redemption made impossible?
He had offered up his life to this land to atone for a life taken when she--when she first looked up with eyes of gratitude, eyes that haunted him.