One thing could turn you from man into beast--and that would be if
Lotys loved--not you--she never will love you--but another!"--Thord
started back as though suddenly stabbed, and angrily shook off his
companion, who only laughed again,--a shrill, echoing laugh in which
there was a note of madness and desolation. "Bah!" he exclaimed; "You
are a fool after all! You work for a woman as I did--once! But mark
you!--do not kill her--as I did--once! Be patient! Watch the light
shine, even though it does not illumine your path; be glad that the
rose blooms for itself, if not for you! It will be difficult!--
meanwhile you can live on hope--a bitter fruit to eat; but gnaw it to
the last rind, my Sergius! Hope that Lotys may melt in your fire, as a
snowflake in the sun! Come! Now take the poor poet home,--the drunken
child of inspiration--take him home to his garret in the slums--the
poet whose book has been accepted by the King!"
Pulling himself up from his semi-crouching position, he seized Thord's
arm again more tightly, and began to walk along unsteadily. Presently
he paused, smiling vacantly up at the gradually vanishing stars.
"Lotys speaks to our followers on Saturday," he said; "You know that?"
Thord bent his head in acquiescence.
"You will be there, of course. I shall be there! What a voice she has!
Whether we believe what she says or not, we must hear,--and hearing, we
must follow.
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