This blatant will that sang ever the song of self,
that had no desire but to itself, no glory but in its own deeds, no
aim but to impress itself upon some slave, some Julian of this world,
stood before the doctor's imagination like a personality, a devil
embodied,--more, like the devil of whom men and women speak, against whom
religion prays, and strives and rears great churches, and consecrates
priests. Egoism developed to the utmost limits, is that the Devil? The
doctor asked himself the question, and the great shadow that dogs the
steps of life went by him on its black mission in the likeness of
Valentine singing. And all the modern world stood still to hear and
whispered: "Hark! It is an angel singing! If we but echo the song we
touch the stars. If we but echo the song we, who are weary of time, shall
know eternity. If we but echo the song we shall lay grief to rest beneath
many roses, and draw from its sculptured sepulchre the radiant form of
joy. We shall sing that we shall be great." And the modern world lifted
up its voice, and when it sang, harmony was slain by discord.
The doctor shuddered, seeing an inferno of many circles. But the coward
in him did not rise again. There was the gleam of a distant light upon
him, unquenchable and serene.
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