But when he had parted from Lind and Molyneux, and got out into the sombre glare of the night-world of London, and when there was no further need for that forced composure, he began more clearly to recognize his position, and his heart grew heavy.  This, then, was the end of those visions of loving companionship and constant and sustaining sympathy with which he had dared to fill the future.  He had thought little of anything that might be demanded from him so long as he could anticipate Natalie’s approval, and be rewarded with a single glance of gratitude from the proud, dark, beautiful eyes.  What mattered it to him what became of himself, what circumstances surrounded them, so long as he and she were together?  But now a more terrible sacrifice than any he had dreamed of had to be made.  The lady of love whom the Pilgrims had sworn to serve was proving herself inexorable indeed: 

“—­Is she a queen, having great gifts to give? 
—­Yea, these; that whoso hath seen her shall not live
Except to serve her sorrowing, with strange pain,
Travail and bloodshedding and bitterer tears;
And when she bids die he shall surely die. 
And he shall leave all things under the sky,
And go forth naked under sun and rain,
And work and wait and watch out all his years.”

When Lord Evelyn had asked him whether he was prepared to go to America alone, he had clasped the ring that Natalie had given him, and answered “Yes.”  But that was as a matter of theory.  It was what he might do, in certain possible circumstances.  Now that he had to face the reality, and bethink him of the necessity of taking Natalie’s hand for the last time, his heart sank within him.

He walked on blindly through the busy streets, seeing nothing around him.  His memory was going over the most trivial incidents connected with Natalie, as if every look of hers, every word she had uttered, was now become something inexpressibly precious.  Were there not many things he could carry away with him to the land beyond the seas?  No distance or time could rob him of the remembrance of that night at the opera—­the scent of white rose—­her look as she gave him the forget-me-nots.  Then the beautiful shining day as they drew near to Dover, and her pride about England, and the loosened curls of hair that blew about her neck.  On the very first evening on which he had seen her—­she sitting at the table and bending over the zither—­her profile touched by the rose-tinted light from the shade of the candle—­the low, rich voice, only half heard, singing the old, familiar, tender Lorelei.  He felt the very touch of her fingers on his arm when she turned to him with reproving eyes:  “Is that the way you answer an appeal for help?” That poor devil of a Kirski—­what had become of him?  He would find out from Reitzei; and, before leaving England, would take care that something should be done for the luckless outcast.  He should have cause to remember all his life-long that Natalie Lind had interfered in his behalf.