Page:The children of the night.djvu/84

 Of life (whatever it was) was blasted; My game was lost. And I met the winner Of that foul deal as a sick slave gathers His painful strength at the sight of his master; And when he was past I cursed him, fearful Of that strange chance which makes us mighty Or mean, or both. I cursed him and hated The stones he pressed with his heel; I followed His easy march with a backward envy, And cursed myself for the beast within me. But pride is the master of love, and the vision Of those old days grew faint and fainter: The counterfeit wife my mercy sheltered Was nothing now but a woman,—a woman Out of my way and out of my nature. My battle with blinded love was over, My battle with aching pride beginning. If I was the loser at first, I wonder If I am the winner now! . . . I doubt it. My life is a losing game; and to-morrow— To-morrow!—Christ! did I say to-morrow? . . Is your brandy good for death? . . . There, listen:—

When loves goes out, and a man is driven To shun mankind for the scars that make him A joke for all chattering tongues, he carries A double burden. The woes I suffered After that hard betrayal made me