A second tune she went by the ruins, without raising her eyes, and as if deeply absorbed.

Lucan remained convinced that she had not suspected his presence, when suddenly she turned her head slightly around, without interrupting her march, and she cast behind her that single word, "Farewell," in a tone so gentle, so musical, so sorrowful, that it was somewhat like the sound of a tear falling upon a sonorous crystal.
That minute was a supreme one.

It was one of those moments during which a man's life is decided for eternal good or for eternal evil.

Monsieur de Lucan felt it so.

Had he yielded to the attraction of passion, of intoxication, of pity, that was urging him with almost irresistible force on the footsteps of that beautiful and unhappy woman--that was on the point of casting him at her feet, upon her heart--he felt that he became at once and forever a lost and desperate soul.