“I wish, though, it had been something more exciting,” Brand said.  “I should not have minded having a turn at the Syrian business; I am not much afraid of risking my neck.  There is not much danger in Philadelphia.”

“But look here, Brand,” said Lord Evelyn, regarding him attentively.  “You are speaking with great equanimity about your going to America; possibly you might like the change well enough; but do I understand you that you are prepared to go alone?”

Brand looked up; he understood what was meant.

“If I am ordered—­yes.”

He held out his right hand; on the third finger there was a massive gold ring—­a plain hoop, without motto or design whatever.

“There,” said he, “is the first ring I ever wore.  It was given to me this afternoon, to remind me of a promise; and that promise is to me more binding than a hundred oaths.”

He rose with a sigh.

“Ah, well, Evelyn, whatever happens we will not complain.  There have been compensations.”

“But you have not told me what answer you mean to give to Lind.”

“Suppose I wait until I see him before deciding?”

“Then you will say, No.  You have allowed your distrust of him to become a sort of mania, and the moment you see him the mere sight of him will drive you into antagonism.”

“I tell you what I wish I could do, Evelyn,” said the other, laughing:  “I wish I could turn over everything I have got to you, and escape scot-free to America and start my own life free and unencumbered.”

“And alone?”

His face grew grave again.

“There is nothing possible else!” said he.

It was nearly eight o’clock when he left.  As he walked along Piccadilly, a clear and golden twilight was shining over the trees in the Green Park.  All around him was the roar of the London streets; but it was not that that he heard.  Was it not rather the sound of a soft, low voice, and the silvery notes of the zither?  His memory acted as a sea-shell, and brought him an echo from other days and other climes.

     “Behold the beautiful night—­the wind sleeps drowsily—­the silent
     shores slumber in the dark: 

    “Sul placido elemento
     Vien meco a navigar!

     “The soft wind moves—­as it stirs among the leaves—­it moves and
     dies—­among the murmur of the water: 

    “Lascia l’amico tetto,
     Vien meco a navigar!

     “Now on the spacious mantle—­of the already darkening heavens—­see,
     oh the shining wonder—­how the white stars tremble: 

    “Sul l’onde addormentate
     Vien meco a navigar!”

This was the voice that he heard amidst the roar of the London streets.  Would he hear it far away on the wide Atlantic, with the shores of England hidden behind the mists of rain?  To-night was to decide what the future of his life was to be.