"Look," said I, "look round you, Anthony, upon this wonder of earth and heaven! Does it not wake in you some consciousness of divinity, some assured hope that we in our nobler selves are one with the Infinite Good?"
"Why, to be sure, now you mention it," he answered easily, glancing from me to the radiant heaven and back again, "it is a very glorious night!"
"Yes!" said I. "'In such a night stood Dido with a willow in her hand upon the wide sea banks and wafted her love to come again to Carthage!'"
"Eh?" exclaimed Anthony, peering at me anxiously.
"'In such a night Medea gathered the enchanted herbs,'—and in such a night your friend, who may never see another—takes occasion to ask a promise of you."
"What is it, Perry?"
"That henceforth you will be drunk no more. Give me your word for this, Anthony, and come what will, I shall not have lived in vain."
"Why, Peregrine," he mumbled, "dear fellow—not quite yourself—very natural—quite understand—"
"On the contrary, I have never been so truly myself as now, Anthony. Grant me this and—if death find me to-morrow morning, I shall indeed have accomplished something worthy at last. So, Anthony—promise me!"
For a moment he stood very still, gazing up at the moon, then, all in a moment, had caught my hand to wring it hard; but the pain of his grip was a joy and the look on his face a comfort beyond words.