that poem with the calm criticism of a trained and cultivated mind; he
had no desire to be whirled back into his study at Constantinople, his
brain throbbing and bursting with what was coming next. He shrugged
his shoulders. It was a humiliating confession, but there were forces
over which he had no control; there was nothing to do but resign
himself to the inevitable.

He opened the drawer and took out the manuscript. To his unspeakable
satisfaction he remained calm and unperturbed. He felt merely a
cold-blooded content that he had balked his enemies and that his
ambition was to be gratified. Once, before he opened the paper, he
smiled at his readiness to accept the theory of reincarnation. It had
taken complete possession of him, and he felt not the slightest desire
to combat it. Did a doubt cross his mind, he had but to recall the
park seen by his spiritual eyes, as he descended upon it to be born
again. It was the park in which he, Harold Dartmouth, had played as
a child during his annual visits to his parents; the park surrounding
the castle in which he had been born, and which had belonged to his
father's line for centuries. For the first time in his life he did
not reason. It seemed to him that there was no corner or loophole
for argument, nothing but a cold array of facts which must be
unconditionally accepted or rejected.

He spread out the poem. It was in blank verse, and very long. He was
struck at once with its beauty and power. Although his soul responded
to the words as to the tone of a dear but long unheard voice, still he
was spared the mental exaltation which would have clouded his judgment
and destroyed his pleasure. He leaned his elbows on the desk, and,
taking his head between his hands, read on and on, scarcely drawing
breath. Poets past and present had been his familiar friends, but in