Then, in the exaltation of love, more than ever it seemed to him to mean death, the only other thing as strong as love.

Under the moon, under the cold, splendid stars, there were only those two things awake and sleepless; death and love, the rushing river and his burning heart.
Alexander sat up and looked about him.

The train was tearing on through the darkness.

All his companions in the day-coach were either dozing or sleeping heavily, and the murky lamps were turned low.

How came he here among all these dirty people?
Why was he going to London?
What did it mean--what was the answer?
How could this happen to a man who had lived through that magical spring and summer, and who had felt that the stars themselves were but flaming particles in the far-away infinitudes of his love?
What had he done to lose it?
How could he endure the baseness of life without it?
And with every revolution of the wheels beneath him, the unquiet quicksilver in his breast told him that at midsummer he would be in London.