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Rh Were the past weeks still in the future, would I pursue the same course? Well, I cannot argue from what I am to what I was. Up to the time when Sinfire appeared, my life had been all thought and speculation, but, so far as action was concerned, only a dull level of monotonous routine,—no memories, no anticipations, no events. Then, during one flying summer, I lived through the full height and depth of my nature. The action and passion of a lifetime were concentrated in that little space. The torch flamed up royally for a moment; but now it flickers, and perhaps it will die out. Indeed, I feel an indifference stealing over me: few terrors, and few joys, could quicken my pulses now. I have made trial of myself, and the result is not very satisfactory. I thought I had in me the making of a great man; but a great man is great for a lifetime,—not merely for an hour. I have cleared my way, and am ready to begin my career; but, now that all else is won, the enterprise is lacking. Some men, it would seem, are mocked in their very creation: they feel within them the stirrings of what seems to be a mighty soul; they follow its dictates, and, behold I all that fine flame exhales away, and leaves nothing but dust and ashes. It was but the spectre of a mighty soul,—a will-o'-the-wisp, that tempts them to destruction.

Yet there is one thing that can reanimate me, and perhaps stimulate me to fulfil the destiny I had imagined. If Sinfire gives herself to me, I am happy, I am in heaven, and the powers of hell shall not prevail against me. She is my life-blood, and the breath of my nostrils. Who she is, whence she comes, and for what end, I know not; but she has made herself my earth and my heaven, my space, my fate. Will she vanish as she came? The sun sets, and darkness falls; but anon the cast is afire, and he comes again. But upon the night of her departure—if she depart—no dawn will ever rise.

I cannot feel any confidence or security. She seems, when I fix my thoughts upon her, to be far off, and still receding. I am crushed down by some nameless oppression of evil visions. The ghosts of my dead brothers seem to be lying in wait for me in the gloom. But Sinfire can rescue me: her soft white hand can save me. She is my God: I can look to no other. But if she fails me, what then?

Well, there is still Sâprani.

This little blank-book,—now no longer blank,—which I picked up in an idle moment, and resolved to make a journal of, has but a few pages left; and when it is finished I shall not begin another. So does the Creator of men pick up the white leaf of their ignorant souls, and trace black marks upon it, and then fling it aside. But who reads