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Elsewhere it would seek the fire it
needed, the fire it would surely find at last.
And so it was. The torch came on, passed softly by, slipped from his
sight beneath the bridge of Castel dell' Uovo.
When it had gone Artois felt strangely deserted and alone, strangely
unreconciled with life. And he remembered his conversation with
Hermione in Virgil's Grotto; how he had spoken like one who scarcely
needed love, having ambition and having work to do, and being no
longer young.
To-night he felt that every one needs love first--that all the other
human needs come after that great necessity. He had thought himself a
man full of self-knowledge, full of knowledge of others. But he had
not known himself. Perhaps even now the real man was hiding somewhere,
far down, shrinking away for fear of being known, for fear of being
dragged up into the light.
He sought for this man, almost with violence.
A weariness lay beneath his violence to-night, a physical fatigue such
as he sometimes felt after work.


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