brought him no nearer to relief. It
was with strange lassitude that he heard the voice still speaking:

"We must make a night of it, since to-morrow we die.... You would curb
licence from without--I from within. When I get up and when I go to bed,
when I draw a breath, see a face, or a flower, or a tree--if I didn't
feel that I was looking on the Deity, I believe I should quit this palace
of varieties, from sheer boredom. You, I understand, can't look on your
God, unless you withdraw into some high place. Isn't it a bit lonely
there?"

"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