He recognized them at once
as Sergius Thord and the half-inebriated poet, Paul Zouche. With
noiseless step he moved cautiously into the broad stretch of black
shadow cast by the great facade of a block of buildings which occupied
half the length of the street in which he stood, and so managing to
slip into the denser darkness of a doorway, was able to hear what they
were saying. The full, mellow, and persuasive tone of Thord's voice had
something in it of reproach.
"You shame yourself, Zouche!" he said; "You shame me; you shame us all!
Man, did God put a light of Genius in your soul merely to be quenched
by the cravings of a bestial body? What associate are you for us? How
can you help us in the fulfilment of our ideal dream? By day you mingle
with litterateurs, scientists, and philosophers,--report has it that
you have even managed to stumble your way into my lady's boudoir;--but
by night you wander like this,--insensate, furious, warped in soul,
muddled in brain, and only the heart of you alive,--the poor
unsatisfied heart--hungering and crying for what itself makes
impossible!"
Zouche broke into a harsh laugh. Turning up his head to the sky, he
thrust back his wild hair, and showed his thin eager face and
glittering eyes, outlined cameo-like by the paling radiance of the
moon.
"Well spoken, my Sergius!" he exclaimed.
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