“Thank God, it is not too late!” he murmured; “Not quite too late to save the situation!--to rescue the people from long years of undeserved taxation, loss of trade and general distress! It is a supreme task that has been given me to accomplish!--but if there is any truth and right in the laws of the Universe, I shall surely not be misjudged while accomplishing it!” He quickened his pace;--and to avoid going up one of the longer thoroughfares which led to the citadel and palace, he decided to cross one of the many picturesque bridges, arched over certain inlets from the sea, and forming canals, where barges and other vessels might be towed up to the very doors of the warehouses which received their cargoes. But just as he was about to turn in the necessary direction, he halted abruptly at sight of two men, standing at the first corner in the way of his advance, talking earnestly. He recognized them at once as Sergius Thord and the half-inebriated poet, Paul Zouche. With noiseless step he moved cautiously into the broad stretch of black shadow cast by the great façade of a block of buildings which occupied half the length of the street in which he stood, and so managing to slip into the denser darkness of a doorway, was able to hear what they were saying. The full, mellow, and persuasive tone of Thord’s voice had something in it of reproach. “You shame yourself, Zouche!” he said; “You shame me; you shame us all! Man, did God put a light of Genius in your soul merely to be quenched by the cravings of a bestial body? What associate are you for us? How can you help us in the fulfilment of our ideal dream? By day you mingle with litterateurs, scientists, and philosophers,--report has it that you have even managed to stumble your way into my lady’s boudoir;--but by night you wander like this,--insensate, furious, warped in soul, muddled in brain, and only the heart of you alive,--the poor unsatisfied heart--hungering and crying for what itself makes impossible!” Zouche broke into a harsh laugh. Turning up his head to the sky, he thrust back his wild hair, and showed his thin eager face and glittering eyes, outlined cameo-like by the paling radiance of the moon. “Well spoken, my Sergius!” he exclaimed. “You always speak well! Your thoughts are of flame--your speech is of gold; the fire melts the ore! And then again you have a conscience! That is a strange possession!--quite useless in these days, like the remains of the tail we had when we were all happy apes in the primeval forest, pelting the Megatherium or other such remarkable beasts with cocoanuts! It was a much better life, Sergius, believe me! A Conscience is merely a mental Appendicitis! There should be a psychical surgeon with an airy lancet to cut it out. Not for me!--I was born perfect--without it!” He laughed again, then with an abrupt change of manner he caught Thord violently by the arm.