“Home! I have no home! Since _she_ died--” He paused, and a grey shadow crossed his face like the hue of approaching sickness or death. “I killed her, poor child! Of course you know that! I neglected her,--deserted her--left her to die! Well! She is only one more added to the list of countless women martyrs who have been tortured out of an unjust world--and now--now I write verses to her memory!” He shivered as with cold, still clinging to Thord’s arm. “But I did not tell you what great good comes of sending a book to the King! It means less to a writer than to a boot-maker. For the boot-maker can put up a sign: ‘Special Fitter for the ease of His Majesty’s Corns’--but if a poet should say his verse is ‘accepted’ by a monarch, the shrewd public take it at once to be bad verse, and will have none of it! That is the case with my book to-day!” “Why did you send it?” asked Thord, with grave patience. “Your business with kings is to warn, not to flatter!” “Just so!” cried Zouche; “And if His Most Gracious and Glorious had been pleased to look inside the volume, he would have seen enough to startle him! It was sent in hate, my Sergius,--not in humility,--just as the flunkey-secretary’s answer was penned in derision, aping courtesy! How you look, under this wan sky of night! Reproachful, yet pitying, as the eyes of Buddha are your eyes, my Sergius! You are a fine fellow--your brain is a dome decorated with glorious ideals!--and yet you are like all of us, weak in one point, as Achilles in the heel. One thing could turn you from man into beast--and that would be if Lotys loved--not you--she never will love you--but another!”--Thord started back as though suddenly stabbed, and angrily shook off his companion, who only laughed again,--a shrill, echoing laugh in which there was a note of madness and desolation. “Bah!” he exclaimed; “You are a fool after all! You work for a woman as I did--once! But mark you!--do not kill her--as I did--once! Be patient! Watch the light shine, even though it does not illumine your path; be glad that the rose blooms for itself, if not for you! It will be difficult!--meanwhile you can live on hope--a bitter fruit to eat; but gnaw it to the last rind, my Sergius! Hope that Lotys may melt in your fire, as a snowflake in the sun! Come! Now take the poor poet home,--the drunken child of inspiration--take him home to his garret in the slums--the poet whose book has been accepted by the King!” Pulling himself up from his semi-crouching position, he seized Thord’s arm again more tightly, and began to walk along unsteadily. Presently he paused, smiling vacantly up at the gradually vanishing stars. “Lotys speaks to our followers on Saturday,” he said; “You know that?” Thord bent his head in acquiescence. “You will be there, of course. I shall be there! What a voice she has! Whether we believe what she says or not, we must hear,--and hearing, we must follow. Where shall we drink in the sweet Oracle this time?”