And indeed he was changing so much--not essentially in his person, though his face had become broader, intolerant, domineering and cruel--but there was pouring from him so great an emanation of power that it seemed to crack and break down the poor little room. Mr. G.M. and myself had no desire to thwart him, and it never occurred to us to do so. We should as soon have thought of stopping a thunderstorm. We followed him outside on to the space of level ground before the house and listened humbly while he spoke. As well as I can recollect, he was lamenting some hindrance to his impulses, some flaw in his power. "To have the instincts of the ruler and no slaves to carry out my will. To wish to reward and punish and to be deprived of the means. To be the master of the world, but only in my own breast--Oh, fury! The ploughboy there is happy, for he has no longings outside of his simple round life. While I--if I had the earth in my hand, I should want a star. Misery! Misery!" He leaned upon a low stonewall and looked down on the town, over the pastures blurred with rain. "And those wretches down there," he pronounced slowly, "who jeer at me when I pass and insult me with impunity, whose heads should be struck off, and I cannot strike them off! I loathe that town. How ugly it is! It offends my eyes." He turned and looked us full in the face and our hearts became as water. "Burn it," he said. Then he turned away again and bowed his head in his arms on the wall. I don't remember anything clearly till a long time afterward, when I found myself walking with Mr. G.M. in the wet night on a deserted road on the outskirts of the town. We were carrying some inflammable things, flax, tar, matches, etc., which we must have purchased. Mr. G.M. stopped and looked at me. It was exactly like coming out of a fainting fit. "What are we doing with this gear?" he said in a low voice. "I don't know." "Better chuck it over a hedge.--" We made our way to the station in silence. I was thinking of that desolate figure up there on the hill, leaning over the wall in the dark and the rain. We caught the last train to London. In the carriage Mr. G.M. began to shiver as though he were cold. "Brrr! that fellow got on my nerves," he said; and we made no further allusion to the matter. But as the train, moving slowly, passed a gap which brought us again in sight of the town, we saw a tongue of flame stream into the sky. THE SHAME DANCE[18] By WILBUR DANIEL STEELE (From _Harper's Magazine_) "Stories of New York life preferable."