"That is the British legation, Herr."
The Englishman stopped and stared, unconscious of the close
scrutiny of the guide. His eyes traveled up the wide flags
leading to the veranda, and he drew a picture of a square-
shouldered old man tramping backward and forward, the wind
tangling his thin white hair, his hands behind his back, his
chin in his collar and at his heels a white bulldog. Rapidly
another picture came. It was an English scene. And the echo of a
voice fell on his ears. "My way and the freedom of the house and
the key to the purse; your way and a closed door while I live.
You can go, but you can not come back. You have decided? Yes?
Then good morning." Thirteen years, thirteen years! He had
sacrificed the freedom of the house and the key to the purse,
the kind eyes and the warm pressure of that old hand. And for
what? Starvation in the deserts, plenty of scars and little of
thanks, ingratitude and forgetfulness.
And now the kind eyes were closed and the warm hand cold. O, to
recall the vanished face, the silent voice, the misspent years,
the April days and their illusions! The Englishman took the
monocle from his eye and looked at it, wondering what had caused
the sudden blur.
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