“There are worse things than loneliness.” And they walked on, in silence; till suddenly Miltoun broke out: “You talk of tyranny! What tyranny could equal this tyranny of your freedom? What tyranny in the world like that of this 'free' vulgar, narrow street, with its hundred journals teeming like ants' nests, to produce-what? In the entrails of that creature of your freedom, Courtier, there is room neither for exaltation, discipline, nor sacrifice; there is room only for commerce, and licence.” There was no answer for a moment; and from those tall houses, whose lighted windows he had apostrophized, Miltoun turned away towards the river. “No,” said the voice beside him, “for all its faults, the wind blows in that street, and there's a chance for everything. By God, I would rather see a few stars struggle out in a black sky than any of your perfect artificial lighting.” And suddenly it seemed to Miltoun that he could never free himself from the echoes of that voice—it was not worth while to try. “We are repeating ourselves,” he said, dryly. The river's black water was making stilly, slow recessional under a half-moon. Beneath the cloak of night the chaos on the far bank, the forms of cranes, high buildings, jetties, the bodies of the sleeping barges, a—million queer dark shapes, were invested with emotion. All was religious out there, all beautiful, all strange. And over this great quiet friend of man, lamps—those humble flowers of night, were throwing down the faint continual glamour of fallen petals; and a sweet-scented wind stole along from the West, very slow as yet, bringing in advance the tremor and perfume of the innumerable trees and fields which the river had loved as she came by. A murmur that was no true sound, but like the whisper of a heart to a heart, accompanied this voyage of the dark water. Then a small blunt skiff—manned by two rowers came by under the wall, with the thudding and the creak of oars. “So 'To-morrow we die'?” said Miltoun: “You mean, I suppose, that 'public life' is the breath of my nostrils, and I must die, because I give it up?” Courtier nodded. “Am I right in thinking that it was my young sister who sent you on this crusade?” Courtier did not answer. “And so,” Miltoun went on, looking him through and through; “to-morrow is to be your last day, too? Well, you're right to go. She is not an ugly duckling, who can live out of the social pond; she'll always want her native element. And now, we'll say goodbye! Whatever happens to us both, I shall remember this evening.” Smiling, he put out his hand 'Moriturus te saluto.' CHAPTER XXIII