the bungalow his heart was a chaos of conflicting
emotions. His little world had been wiped out.
His creator--the man whom he thought his only friend
and benefactor--had suddenly turned against him.
The beautiful creature he worshipped was either lost
or dead; Sing had said so. He was nothing but
a miserable THING. There was no place in the world for him,
and even should he again find Virginia Maxon, he had
von Horn's word for it that she would shrink from him
and loathe him even more than another.

With no plans and no hopes he walked aimlessly through
the blinding rain, oblivious of it and of the vivid
lightning and deafening thunder. The palisade at
length brought him to a sudden stop. Mechanically he
squatted on his haunches with his back against it,
and there, in the midst of the fury of the storm he
conquered the tempest that raged in his own breast.
The murder that rose again and again in his untaught
heart he forced back by thoughts of the sweet, pure
face of the girl whose image he had set up in the inner
temple of his being, as a gentle, guiding divinity.

"He made me without a soul," he repeated over and over
again to himself, "but I have found a soul--she shall
be my soul. Von Horn could not explain to me what a
soul is. He does not know. None of them knows. I am
wiser than all the rest, for I have learned what a soul is.
Eyes cannot see it--fingers cannot feel it, but he who possess
it knows that it is there for it fills his whole breast