She could not speak, could not even sob. Neither horror nor resentment was possible for her, nor any protest, save the tears which welled silently, terribly.
Unable longer to endure this, Meriwether Lewis turned to leave behind him his last hope of happiness, and to face alone what he now felt to be the impenetrable night of his own destiny. He never knew when his hands fell from Theodosia Alston's face, or when he turned away; but at last he felt himself walking, forcing his head upright, his face forward.
He passed, a tall, proud man in his half-savage trappings--a man in full ownership of splendid physical powers; but as he walked his feet were lead, his heart was worse than lead. And though his face was turned away from her, he knew that always he would see what he had left--this picture of Theodosia weeping--this picture of a saint mocked, of an altar desecrated. She wept, and it was because of him!
The dumb cry of his remorse, his despair, must have struck back to where she still stood, her hands on her bosom, staring at him as he passed: "Theo! Theo! What have I done? What have I done?"