Dacre accompanied him to Denver. They separated on a platform of the station at the foot of 17th Street, and, at the twelfth hour, the Englishman made a last effort to dissuade his friend from embarking on what he regarded as a fantastic adventure.
"I don't know where you are heading for, Power," he said. "You have not told me, and I can only suppose you mean to be lost to the world."
"Something like that," and Power smiled frankly. His face no longer wore the hunted, harassed aspect of a man who finds the unhappiness of life almost unbearable. A new look had come into his eyes. He seemed to be gazing constantly at some far horizon not bounded by earth and sky, a dim, sunless line beyond which lay a mysterious land of peace, a kingdom akin to Nirvana, the realm of extinction.
"Shall I not hear from you, even once a year?"
"It is improbable," was the grave answer.
"But I refuse to believe that you and I are parting now forever."
"If Providence wills it, we shall meet again. I hope so. If ever I find myself back in the crowded highway, I shall look for you."
"Can't I induce you, even now, to come with me to England? I'm tired of globe-trotting. You would find my place in Devonshire a quiet nook."
Then, greatly daring, Dacre urged a plea so cruelly direct that he had not ventured to use it before this final moment.
"Have you reflected as to the effect of this action of yours on Nancy when she hears of it?" he said. "I may run up against her. There are only ten thousand of us, you know. She will surely ask me what has become of you. What am I to tell her?"
Power had not spoken of Nancy during a month or more, and his friend thought that a sudden thrusting of her image before his eyes would startle him out of the semihypnotic condition in which he appeared to exist. But, to Dacre's chagrin and astonishment, the ruse failed utterly. Power evidently found the point thus unexpectedly raised somewhat perplexing.
"Tell her?" he repeated, in a most matter-of-fact tone. "Is it necessary to tell her anything? But, of course, you will say you saw the last of me, and a woman hates to be ignored, even by the man she has discarded. Tell her, then, that in India there are Hindus of devout intent who measure two thousand miles of a sacred river by prostrations along its banks. These devotees have done no wrong to any human being, and their notion of service is sublimely ridiculous. But if, among them, was a poor wretch who had committed an unforgivable crime, and _he_ thought to expiate it by carrying sharp flints on which to fling himself each yard of the way, one could understand _him_."