And he looked.

“Look closer—­closer yet!” commanded his tormentor.  “A few deep lines—­and what more?”

Olof looked again.  The plainer furrows tailed off into a host of smaller lines and tiny folds, this way and that, there seemed no end to them.  And again he shuddered.

“Count them!” cried the voice behind him.

“Impossible—­they—­they are so small!”

“Small they may be—­but how many are there?”

Olof bent forward and tried to count.

“Well?”

No answer.

“How many are there?” thundered the voice—­and Olof saw the whip raised above his head.

“Nine or ten, perhaps,” he answered.

“More!  And what do they mean?  Can you tell me that?”

“No.”

“No?  Then let me tell you, that you may know henceforward.  The first...?”

“I—­I don’t know.”

“You know well enough.  Bright eyes—­that is the first.”

He flinched involuntarily as under the lash.  And now the strokes followed sharply one on another.

“A fine figure and curling hair ... tears and empty promises ... a thirst for beauty ... false brotherhood ... selfishness and the desire for conquest ... dying voices of childhood ... dreams and self-deceit....”

“Enough!”

“Not yet.  There are little extras that you have not called to mind.”

“Leave me in peace!” cried Olof almost threateningly.

“You could not leave yourself in peace.  Look again—­what more—­what more?”

“Go!” Olof sprang up with a cry like that of a wounded beast, took the mirror and flung it against the stove, the pieces scattering with a crash about the floor.  His blood boiled, his eyes burned with a dark, boding gleam.

“And what then?” he cried defiantly.  “My mark?  Why, then, let it be.  I’ll go my own way, mark or no mark.”

He picked up his hat and hurried out.

TO THE DREGS

“And now—­I’ll drink it to the dregs!

“Why not?  I’ve tasted the rarest wine in cups of purest crystal—­why not swallow the lees of a baser drink from a tavern stoup?  ’Tis the last that drowns regret.  Others have done so—­why not I?

“Once we have tasted, we must drink—­we must dip down into the murky depths of life if we are to know it to the full—­ay, drink with a laugh, and go on our way with lifted head!

“Drink to the dregs—­and laugh at life!  Life does not waste tears over us!”

Olof strode briskly out toward a certain quarter of the town, a complex of narrow streets and little houses with stuffy rooms, where glasses are filled and emptied freely, and men sit with half-intoxicated women on their knees, sacrificing to insatiable idols.

It was a summer evening, bright and clear.  The noise of day had ceased, and few were abroad.  It seemed like a Sunday, just before evening service, when all were preparing for devotion, and he alone walked with workaday thoughts in his mind.