CHAPTER XV.
I Choose my Way.
The dead man lay there, embracing the empty box that had brought him to his death; and for many minutes I sat within a yard of him, detained by the fascination and grim mockery of the picture no less than by physical weakness and a numbness of my brain.

My body refused to act, and my mind hardly urged its indolent servant.

I was in sore distress for Marie Delhasse,--my vehement cry witnessed it,--yet I had not the will to move to her aid; will and power both seemed to fail me.

I could fear, I could shrink with horror, but I could not act; nor did I move till the increasing pain of my wound drove me, as it might any unintelligent creature, to scramble to my feet and seek, half-blindly, for some place that should afford shelter and succor.
Leaving Lafleur and the box where they lay, a pretty spectacle for a moralist, I stumbled through the wood back to the path, and stood there in helpless vacillation.

At the house I should find better attendance, but old Jean's cottage was nearer.