He had force of thought to electrify nations.

But his was the old story of the star-gazer walking into the well, who
might have studied the stars in the well, but could not be warned of
the well by the stars. He had whistled grand chances down the wind,
reaching after what was superhuman. His hunger had been vast, but the
food wherewith he had filled himself nourished him not, and suddenly
he had collapsed. His first actual step towards realizing his lofty
aspirations had landed him low amongst earth's common criminals,--nor
had the harm stopped there. That defiant impulse to which he had just
now been on the point of yielding had not dared so much as to have
shown its face before his unvitiated will. He was disorganized and at
the mercy of events, because without law sufficient to keep and guide
himself.

Though fallen, there was in him somewhat giant-like, perhaps easier to
see now than before,--as the ruin seems vaster than the perfect
building. The travail of a soul like Balder's must issue greatly,
whether for good or ill. He could not remain long inchoate, but the
elements would combine to make something either darker or fairer than
had been before. Meanwhile, in the uncrystallized solution the curious
analyst might detect traits bright or sinister, ordinarily invisible.
Here were softness, impetuosity, romantic imagination, and tender
fire, enough to set up half a dozen poets. Again, there was a fund of
malignity, coldness, and subtlety adequate to the making an Iago.
Here, too, were the clear sceptical intellect, the fertility and
versatile power of brain, which only the loftier minds of the world
have shown.

Such seemingly incongruous qualities are, in the human crucible, so
mingled, proportioned, and refined, as to form a seeming simple and
transparent whole. We may feel the presence of a spirit weighty,
strong, deep, without understanding the how and why of impression.
Only at critical moments, such as this in Balder's life, can we point
out the joining lines.

Balder's present attitude, viewed from whatever side, was no less
irksome than ignoble. One misfortune was with diabolic ingenuity
dovetailed into another. It was bad enough to have killed a man; but
the victim was his own uncle, and the father--at least the
foster-father--of Gnulemah. And she, forsooth, must idolize the
murderer; and, finally, his heart must leap forth in passionate
response to hers at the moment--partly perhaps for the reason-