CHAPTER XVIII
During the last days Artois had not been to the island, nor had he
seen the Marchesino. A sudden passion for work had seized him. Since
the night of Vere's meeting with Peppina his brain had been in flood
with thoughts. Life often acts subtly upon the creative artist,
repressing or encouraging his instinct to bring forth, depressing or
exciting him when, perhaps, he expects it least. The passing incidents
of life frequently have their hidden, their unsuspected part in
determining his activities. So it was now with Artois. He had given an
impetus to Vere. That was natural, to be expected, considering his
knowledge and his fame, his great experience and his understanding of
men. But now Vere had given an impetus to him--and that was surely
stranger. Since the conversation among the shadows of the cave, after
the vision of the moving men of darkness and of fire, since the sound
of Peppina sobbing in the night, and the sight of her passionate face
lifted to show its gashed cross to Vere, Artois' brain and head had
been alive with a fury of energy that forcibly summoned him to work,
that held him working.
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