He was still willing to sacrifice himself, but his family honours he would not pollute.
And then as he made his way past the burial ground and on towards the cliff there crept over him a feeling as to the girl very different from that reverential love which he had bestowed upon her when she was still pure.

He remembered the poorness of her raiment, the meekness of her language, the small range of her ideas.

The sweet soft coaxing loving smile, which had once been so dear to him, was infantine and ignoble.
She was a plaything for an idle hour, not a woman to be taken out into the world with the high name of Countess of Scroope.
All this was the antagonism in his own heart against the indignant words which the priest had spoken to him.

For a moment he was so overcome that he had burst into tears.

But not on that account would he be beaten away from his decision.