He who preached wisdom and claimed to be taught by the flowers, who loved life and hated injustice, who mingled with his kind, ever searching for that one who needed him, he must become the woe and the bane and curse of those he would only serve! Insupportable and pitiful fate! The fiends of the past mocked him, like wicked ghouls, voiceless and dim.

The faces of the men he had killed were around him in the gray gloom, pale, drifting visages of distortion, accusing him, claiming him.

Likewise, these gleams of faces were specters of his mind, a procession eternal, mournful, and silent, wending their way on and on through the regions of his thought.
All were united, all drove him, all put him on the trail of catastrophe.
They foreshadowed the future, they inclosed events, they lured him with his endless illusions.

He was in the vortex of a vast whirlpool, not of water or of wind, but of life.

Alas! he seemed indeed the very current of that whirlpool, a monstrous force, around which evil circled and lurked and conquered.