It trembled and hung upon the air--that brief word "fame"-- as it has so often hung and trembled in the streets and in the _cafes_ of Paris, winged with the exuberance of youth, the faith in his mystic star that abides in the heart of the artist.

In that moment of confession the individuality of the boy was submerged in his ambition; he belonged to no country, to no sex.

He was inspiration made manifest--the flame fanned into being by the winds of the universe, blown as those winds listed.
The Irishman looked into his burning face, and a curious unnamable feeling thrilled him--a sense of enthusiasm, of profound sadness, of poignant envy.
"You're not only seeking the greatest thing in the world," he said, slowly, "but the cruellest.

Failure may be cruel, but success is crueller still.

The gods are usurers, you know; they lend to mortals, but they exact a desperate interest." The boy's hand, still lying unconsciously in his, trembled again.
"I know that; but it does not frighten me." "A challenge?
Take care! The gods are always listening." "I know that.