An intolerable restlessness took possession of him.

He spent his days and a great part of his nights in furious walking about the streets.

The idea hounded him on; it stared at him now from newspaper placards, it was whispered and murmured and shrieked into his ears.
There was war in the Soudan.
He saw his idea illuminated, transfigured.

It was Glory, a stern wingless Victory, beckoning him across a continent.

It no longer pursued him.