But his was the old story of the star-gazer walking into the well, who might have studied the stars in the well, but could not be warned of the well by the stars.  He had whistled grand chances down the wind, reaching after what was superhuman.  His hunger had been vast, but the food wherewith he had filled himself nourished him not, and suddenly he had collapsed.  His first actual step towards realizing his lofty aspirations had landed him low amongst earth’s common criminals,—­nor had the harm stopped there.  That defiant impulse to which he had just now been on the point of yielding had not dared so much as to have shown its face before his unvitiated will.  He was disorganized and at the mercy of events, because without law sufficient to keep and guide himself.

Though fallen, there was in him somewhat giant-like, perhaps easier to see now than before,—­as the ruin seems vaster than the perfect building.  The travail of a soul like Balder’s must issue greatly, whether for good or ill.  He could not remain long inchoate, but the elements would combine to make something either darker or fairer than had been before.  Meanwhile, in the uncrystallized solution the curious analyst might detect traits bright or sinister, ordinarily invisible.  Here were softness, impetuosity, romantic imagination, and tender fire, enough to set up half a dozen poets.  Again, there was a fund of malignity, coldness, and subtlety adequate to the making an Iago.  Here, too, were the clear sceptical intellect, the fertility and versatile power of brain, which only the loftier minds of the world have shown.

Such seemingly incongruous qualities are, in the human crucible, so mingled, proportioned, and refined, as to form a seeming simple and transparent whole.  We may feel the presence of a spirit weighty, strong, deep, without understanding the how and why of impression.  Only at critical moments, such as this in Balder’s life, can we point out the joining lines.

Balder’s present attitude, viewed from whatever side, was no less irksome than ignoble.  One misfortune was with diabolic ingenuity dovetailed into another.  It was bad enough to have killed a man; but the victim was his own uncle, and the father—­at least the foster-father—­of Gnulemah.  And she, forsooth, must idolize the murderer; and, finally, his heart must leap forth in passionate response to hers at the moment—­partly perhaps for the reason—­that every honest motive forbade it.  That look and touch, at the molten point of various emotions, had welded their spirits together at once and lastingly.

What next?  For Gnulemah and for himself what course was least disastrous?—­the heroic line,—­to leave her without a word?—­or, concealing what he was, should he stay and be happy in her arms?  Was there a third alternative?

“To part would be yet worse for her than for me.  She would think I had deceived her.  And, love apart, how can I leave her whose only protector I have killed?  That deed puts me in his place; so love and duty are at one for once.  Her Balder,—­her God,—­she calls me.  She is my universe; the depth and limit of my knowledge and power are gauged by her.  Such is the issue of my aspirations!”