ever, must have been the thought that now when trouble
was upon his master again, trouble which might end all, this supreme
destroyer of pain and dark memory and present misery, would give him the
comfort he needed--and that he would take it.

If he had not seen it, this sudden craving would not have seized him for
this eager beguiling, this soothing benevolence. Yet here it was in his
hand; and even as it lay in his cold fingers--how cold they were, and
his head how burning!--the desire for it surged up in him. And, as
though the thing itself had the magical power to summon up his troubles,
that it might offer the apathy and stimulus in one--even as it lured
him, his dangers, his anxieties, the black uncertainties massed,
multiplied and aggressive, rose before him, buffeted him, caught at his
throat, dragged down his shoulders, clutched at his heart.

Now, with a cry of agony, he threw the phial on the ground, and, sinking
on the bed, buried his face in his hands and moaned, and fought for
freedom from the cords tightening round him. It was for him to realise
now how deep are the depths to which the human soul can sink, even while
labouring to climb. Once more the sense of awful futility was on him: of
wasted toil and blenched force, veins of energy drained of their blood,
hope smitten in the way, and every dear dream shattered. Was it, then,
all ended? Was his work indeed fallen, and all his love undone? Was his
own redemption made impossible? He had offered up his life to this land
to atone for a life taken when she--when she first looked up with eyes
of gratitude, eyes that haunted him. Was it, then, unacceptable? Was it
so that he must turn his back upon this long, heart-breaking but beloved
work, this panacea for his soul, without which he could not pay the
price of blood?

Go back to England--to Hamley where all had changed, where the old man
he loved no longer ruled in the Red Mansion, where all that had been
could be no more? Go to some other land, and there begin again another
such a work? Were there not vast fields of human effort, effort such
as his, where he could ease the sorrow of living by the joy of a divine
altruism? Go back to Hamley? Ah, no, a million times, no! That life was
dead, it was a cycle of years behind him. There could be no return.
He was in a maelstrom of agony, his veins were afire, his lips were
parched. He sprang from his bed, knelt down, and felt for the little
phial he had flung as