Then
he was to die for something he felt but could not understand, for the
decision of some power within him, wiser and swifter and surer than the
cool head to which he had trusted so long. To call that power the heart
was nonsense, as absurd as to call it a function of the brain. It was
distinct from both, it had a being of its own, independent, dominating,
tremendous in its effects. In danger the head said, stop; the heart
said, go on. And honour, then, was the spontaneous reasoning of this
superior power, whatever it might be. But, if it reasoned, so
unfailingly and so surely about some things, why had it nothing to say
about others? Why could this faultless judge decide of nothing save
right and wrong? From habit, doubtless, because we refer no other
questions to him. No, for when we ask a question of ourselves, or when
one is asked of us by another, we do not always know beforehand which
part of ourselves will answer. Mystery of mysteries, to be solved only
by assuming that man has an immortal soul. Idle waste of time, thought
Rex, looking at the cartridge in his revolver and then slowly setting
back the hammer. An idle waste of time, to think of such matters.
Honour or no honour, heart or no heart, the mysterious power within him
bade him die. Die, then, and be done with it. He held the weapon in his
hand, ready to do the deed. One second, and all would be over. At one
end of that polished dark blue barrel was life, with all its dishonour,
with all its sufferings, with all the monstrous blackness of evil it
held, the life of an honest man who loved his brother's wife in spite
of himself, and loathed the thought.
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