It was not till they had descended the straggling, tree-shaded street—­along which the infrequent street-lamps threw little more light that that which came from the windows shining placidly out on lawns—­and had emerged on the embankment bordering the Charles, that the events of the evening began for Davenant to weave themselves in with that indefinable desire that had led him back to Boston.  He could not have said in what way they belonged together; and yet he could perceive that between them there was some such dim interpenetration as the distant lamps of the city made through the silvery mist lying on the river and its adjacent marshes like some efflorescence of the moonlight.

“The difficulty is,” he said, after a long silence, “that it’s often so hard to know what is right.”

“No, it isn’t.”

The flat contradiction brought a smile to the young man’s lips as they trudged onward.

“A good many people say so.”

“A good many people say foolish things.  It’s hard to know what’s right chiefly when you’re not in a hurry to do it.”

“Aren’t there exceptions to that rule?”

“I allowed for the exceptions.  I said chiefly.”

“But when you do want to do it?”

“You’ll know what it is.  There’ll be something to tell you.”

“And this something to tell you?  What do you call it?”

“Some call it conscience.  Some call it God.  Some call it neither.”

Davenant reflected again.

“And you?  What do you call it?”

“I can’t see that anything would be gained by telling you.  That sort of knowledge isn’t of much use till it’s worked out for oneself.  At least, it wouldn’t be of much use to you.”

“Why not to me?”

“Because you’ve started out on your own voyage of discovery.  You’ll bring back more treasures from that adventure than any one can give you.”

These things were said crustily, as though dragged from a man thinking of other matters and unwilling to talk.  More minutes went by before Davenant spoke again.

“But doesn’t it happen that what you call the ‘something-to-tell-you’ tells you now and then to do things that most people would call rather wild—­or crazy?”

“I dare say.”

“So what then?”

“Then you do them.”

“Oh, but—­”

“If there’s an ‘Oh, but’, you don’t.  That’s all.  You belong to the many called, but not to the few chosen.”

“But if things are wild—­I’m thinking of something in particular—­”

“Then you’d better leave it alone, unless you’re prepared to be considered a wild man.  What Paul did was wild—­and Peter—­and Joan of Arc—­and Columbus—­and a good many others.  True they were well punished for their folly.  Most of them were put in irons, and some of them got death.”

“I shouldn’t dream of classing myself in their company.”