“I have reflected,” answered Rand, “that there is no danger so intolerable as the chafing of a half-acknowledged bond.  The clock is striking again.  I owe you much, sir.  I thank you for it.  While I served you, I served faithfully.  It is over now.  I look you in the face and tell you this, and so I give you warning that I am free.  Henceforth I act as my free will directs.”

“Act, then!” said the other.  “Act, and find a weight upon your genius heavier than all behests of duty, friendship, faith, and loyalty rolled in one!  Single out from all humanity one man alone, and that yourself, surround him with a monstrous observance, sacrifice before him every living thing that shall cross his path, crown him with gold, and banish from his court every idea that will not play the sycophant!  Seat him, a chained king, high in some red star!—­and still, like a wandering wind, large and candid thought, straying some day past your gloomy windows, shall look within and say, ’See this slave to himself chained upon his burning throne!’ When at last you hear the voice, try to break away.”

He left the window and, crossing to the mantel, pulled the bell-rope.  Old Burwell appeared at the door.  “Mr. Rand’s horse, Burwell,” directed the master, in a cheerful voice, then, when the negro was gone, spoke on without change of tone.  “The night has altered while we talked.  There is a great bank of cloud in the west, and I think the drouth is broken.  You will reach Roselands, however, before the rain comes down.  Pray present my respectful salutations to Mrs. Rand.”

“You are very good,” said Rand.  “My wife”—­He hesitated, then, “I would have you aware that my wife’s hand would keep me in that same country road I spoke of, among those same green fields and peaceful, blameless folk!  Her star is not like mine—­”

“I esteem her the more highly for it,” answered the other.  “I hear your horse upon the gravel—­Selim, still, is it not?  A pleasant ride to you home through this fresher air!  Good-night—­and good-bye.”

“I am not the monster I appear to you,” said Rand.  “A man may go through life and never encounter the irresistible current.  When he does—­I am as little superstitious as you, but I tell you I am borne on!  All the men and women whose blood is in my veins hurry me on, and there is behind me a tide of circumstance.  For all past kindnesses I thank you, sir.  I admire you much, reverence you no little, and bid you a long farewell.”

He walked to the door, then, turning, swept the room with one slow look.  “I was fifteen,” he said, “the day I first came here.  There was a glass of lilies on the table.  Good-night, sir,—­and good-bye.”