The man, whoever he may have been, believed in that doctrine of transmigration, attributed in its raw state to Pythagoras, who is by some thought to have learnt it from the Egyptians; a fantastic notion which is still believed in by many Easterns, notably by the Buddhists. This Dutchman spoke of the soul (the “breath of God”) as being born again and again, according to its moral progress; incarnations being its rule, until it should become sufficiently purified to be reabsorbed into the atmosphere of Divinity (something very like the Nirvana of Buddhism). I smiled, and thought that, judging by the people I had met, the world (according to the Dutchman) is likely to be well populated for a good many years to come. “By their fruits shall ye know them,” wrote the Hollander, who was addicted to quotations, especially from Holy Writ. The good man, in enumerating the fatal signs of future reincarnation in individuals (whom he spoke of compassionately, for he evidently regarded human life as the greatest of ills), mentioned two particular signs, frivolity and self-absorption. Frivolity he seemed to hold in special abhorrence, as being so very far away from any attribute that might be termed eternal or divine. This chapter “On the Age of Souls” was such diverting reading, that I grew wider and wider awake. At last, when two o’clock struck, I got up and dressed. Looking out of window, the garden, bathed in moonlight, was such a ravishing sight that I thought—Why not go out for a stroll? I would. I blew out my candles (I am certain I did), and opening my bedroom door as quietly as possible, crept downstairs, shoes in hand. Did ever stairs creak like those? Certainly not in my experience. Wondering where the dog Nero was, and whether he would be as amiably disposed towards a midnight marauder as he was towards his master’s guest in broad daylight, I gained the hall. Then I remembered the bolts and bars. Should they be in as noisy a humour as the stairs, I should have to give up and go back—not to that hot feather-bed, but to my room. Without in the least thinking it possible that the door to the garden would be unlocked, I tried the handle. To my surprise, the door was unlocked. I was so astonished, that I stood there for a whole minute thinking how foolhardy was Sir Roderick, or how culpably careless were his servants. Open gates to the grounds, open doors to the house! It was positively inviting burglars to do their worst! I thought of this as I walked along the white path, which crackled under my feet. I wanted to get out of sight and out of the hearing of any wakeful member of the household, so I went on and on, disregarding the tempting odour of the orange-blossoms in the Italian garden, the tempting sight of the terrace, with its white marble urns, benches, straight cypresses, and picturesque aloes, and was soon in the pinewood, among the gloomy trees.