CHAPTER XV
Still his soul fed upon the sovereign hour
That had been or that should be:
—Swinburne.
Michael in the meanwhile was running through the deserted streets like a man possessed. Cloakless and hatless he ran, bending his head to the gusts of wind which tore down the narrow byways in the neighbourhood of the Strand.
Fitful clouds chased one another over his head, obscuring the moon, and from time to time descending in sharp showers of icy rain.
But Michael loved the wind and cared naught for the wet. The rags he wore were soon soaked through, but he did not attempt to take shelter beneath the various yawning archways which he passed from time to time; on the contrary he liked the cold douches of these winter showers which seemed to cool his head, burning with inward fever.
Michael Kestyon, the gambler, the adventurer, the wastrel, had begun the fight against his own soul.