He clenched his fists to his eyes as if to banish all sight, all
memory. Then slowly he mastered himself, became perfectly still.
"Well," he said darkly. "There it is."
"What do you mean, Stephen?" The Englishman looked full into his face,
then turned away.
"My trial. My test. In order to free the one person I truly love, I
must lose her forever. To do what is right for others, I must do
injury to myself. It is a bitter choice."
"Yes," said Michael. "But it is not the choice you think. What you do
tonight, or do not do, will be for yourself, not for Mary or for me.
Because if you don't help, and something happens to her, you will
carry it for the rest of your life." He released a weary breath, and
shook his head. "I cannot help you choose."
"No," said the other, looking down. "It seems I must help myself."
There was nothing more to say. Michael started back toward the hut,
wondering if he hadn't made a terrible mistake---if he hadn't tried
the character of this man too hard already. He slowed, stopped
outright, then said without turning.
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