There was no escape, no clearing of the record. There was nothing left
him to do except this, this riding through the night--absolutely
nothing. Once he had guided her into safety all was done,--done
forever; there remained to him no other hope, ambition, purpose, in all
this world. The desert about them typified that forthcoming
existence--barren, devoid of life, dull, and dead. He set his teeth
savagely to keep back the moan of despair that rose to his lips, half
lifting himself in the stirrups to glance back toward her.
If she perceived anything there was not the slightest reflection of it
within her eyes. Lustreless, undeviating, they were staring directly
ahead into the gloom, her face white and almost devoid of expression.
The sight of it turned him cold and sick, his unoccupied hand gripping
the saddle-pommel as though he would crush the leather. Yet he did not
speak, for there was nothing to say. Between these two was a fact,
grim, awful, unchangeable. Fronting it, words were meaningless,
pitiable.
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