g a journey?" he said, nodding at the knapsack. "You are
early--I am late; our friend has admirable kummel--I have drunk too much.
You have not been to bed, I think? If there is no sleep in one's bed it
is no good going to look for it. You find that? It is better to drink
kummel...! Pardon! You are doing the right thing: get away! Get away
as fast as possible! Don't wait, and let it catch you!"

Harz stared at him amazed.

"Pardon!" Sarelli said again, raising his hat, "that girl--the white
girl--I saw. You do well to get away!" he swayed a little as he walked.
"That old fellow--what is his name-Trrreffr-ry! What ideas of honour!"
He mumbled: "Honour is an abstraction! If a man is not true to an
abstraction, he is a low type; but wait a minute!"

He put his hand to his side as though in pain.

The hedges were brightening with a faint pinky glow; there was no sound
on the long, deserted road, but that of their footsteps; suddenly a bird
commenced to chirp, another answered--the world seemed full of these
little voices.

Sarelli stopped.

"That white girl," he said, speaking with rapidity. "Yes! You do well!
get away! Don't let it catch you! I waited, it caught me--what
happened? Everything horrible--and now--kummel!" Laughing a thick
laugh, he gave a twirl to his moustache, and swaggered on.

"I was a fine fellow--nothing too big for Mario Sarelli; the regiment
looked to me. Then she came--with her eyes and her white dress, always
white, like this one; the little mole on her chin, her hands for ever
moving--their touch as warm as sunbeams. Then, no longer Sarelli this,
and that! The little house close to the ramparts! Two arms, two eyes,
and nothing here," he tapped his breast, "but flames that made ashes
quickly--in her, like this ash--!" he flicked the white flake off his
cigar. "It's droll! You agree, hein? Some day I shall go back and kill
her. In the meantime--kummel!"

He stopped at a house close to the road, and stood still, his teeth bared
in a grin.

"But I bore you," he said. His cigar, flung down, sputtered forth its
sparks on the road in front of Harz. "I live here--good-morning! You are
a man for work--your honour is your Art! I know, and you are young! The
man who loves flesh better than his honour is a low type--I am a low
type. I! Mario Sarelli, a low type! I love flesh better than my
honour!"

He remained swaying at the gate with the grin fixed on his face; th