Dale resisted such
superstitious fancies in vain. They upset him; and the fear returned,
bigger than before.
It was irrational, bone-crumbling fear--something that defied
argument, that nothing could allay. It was like the elemental passion
felt by the hunted animal--not fear of death, but the anguish of the
live thing which must perforce struggle to escape death, although
prolonged flight is worse than that from which it flies.
Dale had no real fear of death--nor even fear of the gallows. If the
worst came, he could face death bravely. He was quite sure of that.
Then, as he told himself thousands of times, it was absurd to be so
shaken by terror. Terror of what? And he thought, "It is because of
the uncertainty. But there too, how absurdly fullish I am; for there
is no _real_ uncertainty. My crime can not and will not be discovered.
If I were to go now and accuse myself, people would not credit me."
He thought also, in intervals between the paroxysms, "I suppose what
I've been feeling is what all murderers feel. It is this that makes
men go and give themselves up to the police after they have got off
scot free. They are safe, but they never can believe they're safe;
they can't stand the strain, and if they didn't stop it, they'd go
mad.
Pages:
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463