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