“Oh, no, the swift wind has taken it away. I am clean, I am pure. Life has passed me. It has kissed me, but it has left no trace.”

He looked upon the face of his friend. Their hands met. They felt, with keen enjoyment, the beauty of the night, of their friendship, and of the city beyond.

Then Ernest’s lips moved softly, musically, twitching with a strange ascetic passion that trembled in his voice as he began:

“Huge steel-ribbed monsters rise into the air

Her Babylonian towers, while on high,

Like gilt-scaled serpents, glide the swift trains by,

Or, underfoot, creep to their secret lair.

A thousand lights are jewels in her hair,