Then the devil made his final move.
Ermentrude shuddered, and her position changing, the hand which had been uppermost fell down at her side and the ring slipped--left her finger--paused on the edge of the couch--then came to rest in his palm held out to receive it.
He had not drawn it from her hand.

Fate had restored it.

As he forced himself to look at it lying in his grasp, a faintness as of death seized and held him for a moment; then this passed and he slowly rose and step by step with sidelong looks and hair starting upright on his forehead, like one who has walked in blood and sees the trail of guilt following him along the floor, he left her side--he left the room--he left the house--and the rose-leaves fell about him once more, maddening him with their color, maddening him with the memories inseparable from their sweetness--a sweetness which spoke of her, of love, and the attachment of a true heart destined to grieve for a little while at least, for he was never going back, never, never.
There was no eye to see, and no tongue to tell him that the seed, destined to flower into awful crime some dozen or more years later, put forth its first bud at this fatal hour.
* * * * * He wrote her a letter.

He had the grace to do that.

Addressing her simply as Ermentrude, he told her that he had been called home to enter upon the serious business of life.