But the sudden release from this dire pressure of will left his nerves somewhat unstrung.  For the mere sake of companionship he would like to have taken Natalie’s hand, to have heard her voice:  that would have assured him, and given him courage.  He knew not what dangers encompassed her, what agony she might not be suffering.  And the night did not answer these sudden, wavering, confused questionings; the darkness outside was as silent as the grave.

Then a deeper gloom, almost touching despair, fell upon him.  He saw in all those companions of his only so many dupes; the great hope of his life left him, the future became blank.  He began to persuade himself that he had only toyed with that new-found faith; that it was the desperation of ennui, not a true hope, that had drawn him into this work; that henceforth he would have no right to call upon others to join in a vain undertaking.  If such things as had just occurred were possible in this organization, with all its lofty aims and professions—­if there was to be a background of assassination and conspiracy—­why, this dream must go as others had done.  Then what remained to him in life?  He almost wished he had been allowed to go forward to this climax unknowing; to have gone with his heart still filled with faith; to be assured until the last moment that Natalie would remember how he had fulfilled his promise to her.

It was a dark night for him, within and without.  But as he sat there at the window, or walked up and down, wrestling with these demons of doubt and despair, a dull blue light gradually filled the sky outside; the orange stars on the bridges grew less intense; the broad river became visible in the dusk.  Then by-and-by the dull blue cleared into a pale steel-gray, and the forms of the boats could be made out, anchored in the stream there:  these were the first indications of the coming dawn.

Somehow or other he ceased these restless pacings of his, and was attracted to the window, though he gazed but absently on the slow change taking place outside—­the world-old wonder of the new day rising in the east.  Up into that steely-gray glides a soft and luminous saffron-brown; it spreads and widens; against it the far dome of St. Paul’s becomes a beautiful velvet-purple.  A planet, that had been golden when it was in the dusk near the horizon, has now sailed up into the higher heaven, and shines a clear silver point.  And now, listen! the hushed and muffled sounds in the silence; the great city is awakening from its sleep—­there is the bark of a dog—­the rumble of a cart is heard.  And still that saffron glow spreads and kindles in the east, and the dome of St. Paul’s is richer in hue than ever; the river between the black-gray bridges, shines now with a cold light, and the gas-lamps have grown pale.  And then the final flood of glory wells up in the eastern skies, and all around him the higher buildings catch here and there a swift golden gleam:  the sunrise is declared; there is a new day born for the sons and daughters of men.