himself to be reached by promiscuous amenities. Something had been conceived in his soul, and he wished the process of gestation to go on unhindered. For all that he had spent himself without stint, he felt there was no one among his hearers who could have understood what it meant to him.
He found his way out unnoticed, and walked slowly towards the town by a roundabout route. The air was warm, soft and strong. The sky was alive with stars. Dusty gardens gave forth faint aromatic odours. Far off, the ocean sighed and licked the beach. Once a group of tipsy loiterers bawled impotently into the welkin. As he was making his way to the high street, the bells of the town hall, a few squares farther on, broke into their chime: fuller and deeper for the darkness and hush of night. His emotions raced to his throat and eyes fighting for an outlet, then surged back, leaving him in a warm flood. With the bells one wasn't alone; with the memory of their deep tones one could never be alone. La-fa-so-do—sixteen notes, slow, even, majestic. A magic formula. And each note went singing forth in a circle of sound which infinitely widened, like the circles in a pool. The circles would follow him to the very ends of the earth, always. God was subtle.
To-night their message was less grim, more comforting. "Courage, mon petit!" Aunt Verona's words! "Have faith in yourself, and nothing on earth can prevail against you." Beethoven had known it. The fifth bell tolled the hour of eleven.
He wandered on till he came to a bridge over the railway tracks. The sound of echoing footsteps drew him from his abstraction and he walked more quickly. He had by no means outgrown his distrust for shadows, and was consumed with a desire to turn and see who was following. To do so would be a sure proof of timidity, yet in the end he couldn't resist.
