As Felix Henriot came through the streets that January night the fog was
stifling, but when he reached his little flat upon the top floor there
came a sound of wind. Wind was stirring about the world. It blew against
his windows, but at first so faintly that he hardly noticed it. Then,
with an abrupt rise and fall like a wailing voice that sought to claim
attention, it called him. He peered through the window into the blurred
darkness, listening.

There is no cry in the world like that of the homeless wind. A vague
excitement, scarcely to be analysed, ran through his blood. The curtain
of fog waved momentarily aside. Henriot fancied a star peeped down at
him.

"It will change things a bit--at last," he sighed, settling back into
his chair. "It will bring movement!"

Already something in himself had changed. A restlessness, as of that
wandering wind, woke in his heart--the desire to be off and away. Other
things could rouse this wildness too: falling water, the singing of a
bird, an odour of wood-fire, a glimpse of winding road. But the cry of
wind, always searching, questioning, travelling the world's great
routes, remained ever the master-touch. High longing took his mood in
hand. Mid seven millions he felt suddenly--lonely.


"I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,