The reply was strange to Blake’s ears—­strange in its grave sincerity, stranger still in its quiet fearlessness.

“But you are such a child!” he cried, impulsively.  “You—­”

Imperceptibly the slight figure stiffened, the proud look flashed again into the eyes.

“Many thanks, monsieur, but I am older than you think—­and very independent.  I have the honor monsieur, to wish you good-bye.”

The tone was absolutely courteous, but it was final.  He bowed with easy foreign grace, raised his fur cap, and, turning, swung down the platform and out of sight.

Blake stood watching him—­watching until the high head, the straight shoulders, the lithe, swinging body were but a memory; then he turned with a start, as a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and the pleasant, prosaic voice of the young Englishman assailed his ears.

“My dear chap, what in the world are you doing?  Not day-dreaming with the mercury at thirty?”

“Foolish—­but I was!” Blake answered, calmly.  “I was watching that young Russian stalk away into the unknown, and I was wondering—­”

“What?”

He smiled a little cynically.  “I was wondering, Billy, what type of individual and what particular process fate will choose to let him break himself upon.”

* * * * *

The most splendid moment of an adventure is not always the moment of fulfilment, not even the moment of conception, but the moment of first accomplishment, when the adventurer deliberately sets his face toward the new road, knowing that his boats are burned.

Nothing could have been less inspiring than the dreary Gare du Nord, nothing less inviting than the glimpse of Paris to be caught through its open doorways; but had the whole world laughed him a welcome, the young Russian’s step could not have been more elastic, his courage higher, his heart more ready to pulse to the quick march of his thoughts, as he strode down the gray platform and out into the open.

In the open he paused to study his surroundings.  As yet the full tale of passengers had not emerged, and only an occasional wayfarer, devoid of baggage as himself, had fared forth into the gloom.  Outside, the artificial light of the station ceased to do battle with nature, and only an occasional street lamp gave challenge to the gloomy dawn.  The damp mist that all night had enshrouded Paris still clung about the streets like ragged grave-clothes, and at the edge of the pavement half a dozen fiacres were ranged in a melancholy line, the wretched horses dozing as they stood, the drivers huddled into their fur capes and numbed by the clinging cold.  Everywhere was darkness and chill and the listless misery of a winter dawn, when vitality is at its lowest ebb and the passions of man are sunk in lethargy.

Only a creature infinitely young could have held firm in face of such dejection, only eyes as alert and wakeful as those of this wayfaring boy could possibly have looked undaunted at the shabby streets with their flaunting travesty of joy exhibited in the dripping awnings of the deserted cafes, that offered Biere, Billard, and yet again Biere to an impassive world.