brothers’, and of the child that he himself had been, and all the lives and voices of the hundred others, the lost, the vanished people—were whispering to him as he went down the old dark hall there in his mother’s house. And the remote demented wind was howling in the barren trees, as he had heard it do so many times in childhood, and far off, far-faint and broken by the wind he heard the wailing cry of the great train, bringing to him again its wild and secret promises of flight and darkness, new lands, and a shining city. And there was something wild and dark and secret in him that he could never utter. The strange and bitter miracle of life had filled him and he could not speak, and all he knew was that he was leaving home for ever, that the world, the future of dark time and of man’s destiny lay before him, and that he would never live here in his mother’s houseagain.
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